#hand crafted bangle

[starsandarrow]

New shop update just dropped on Ko-fi.

Bracelets, you're up!

#craftblr #hand crafted #handmade #jewelry #beaded jewelry #beadwork #bracelet #bracelets #bangles #cuff bracelet #bangle bracelet #artist on kofi #kofi shop #ko fi shop

[kitcat22]

Elrond’s Jewellery collection!

Some things that were handed down, gifted or just bought for himself. only a select few pieces, his full collection needs an entire room of its own.

Peacock hair comb - belonged to Maglor. It was bought by Celegorm from a street vender in central Tirion for Maglor’s birthday. He said that since Maglor acted like a peacock so he may as well dress as one.

Lily flower earings - a gift from Cirdan after Elrond and Elros’s return. The boys were going through a lot mentally especially Elrond as Elros began to get closer to the Edain. Lily’s are a symbol of rebirth and resurrection.

Elwing’s wedding ring - once belonged to Elenwe’s. Jewellery making wasn’t a major priority in the havens of sirion so this was the best Earendil could do.

Golden cuff with a beautiful picture of a field on a sunny day carved into it. - Belonged to his nurse from Sirion. He took it from her corpse. She had no family left in middle earth so he kept it with the intention of returning it one day.

A set of rings each with a little dogs carved into it. - Bought from Haladin merchant.

Delicate pearl necklace with two small swan’s intertwining. - Gifted from a tween Findekano with a not-at-all-obvious crush to Maitimo after he returned from visiting Aqualonde.

Cherry blossom Hairpin - that functions as dagger. From a sindar lord with a bit of a crush.

Bronze bangles - Celebrimbor bought them from Narvi and sent them to Lindon as one of Elrond’s coming of age gifts.

Crystal earrings previously belonged to Galadriel. He claims to not know how they ended up in his possession.

Seahorse Broach bought in Numenor during a visit to his nieces and nephews.

Flower crown made of solid gold crafted by Feanor after Maitimo went through a very public and very bad break up with a Vanya nobleman. He showed up to the spring festival wearing it like princess Diana in her revenge dress.

A heavy golden choker with red jewels. Gifted to Maitimo by Melkor on his birthday during the years of the trees no one was comfortable with this least of all Maitimo but he couldn’t refuse a gift from one of the Valar so publicly. Even Celebrimbor’s maia friend seemed very tense and almost angry when he saw it. Mostly stays inside jewellery box, occasionally goes on display in museums.

A little coin with boats on a raging ocean engraved on it Earendil found it washed up on the beach and gave it to him and Elros to share. Has a little gold chain that lets it be worn as a necklace.

#silmarillion #the silm #silm #elrond #elrond peredhel #elros #maedhros #maglor #Celebrimbor #earendil #elwing #cirdan #feanor

[wolven91]

New Style. New You.

Fur was a standard amongst the stars.

Oh sure, some of the races sported beautiful feathers. Others look resplendent in beautiful scales that shone like gemstones. But most of the races had fur. The taurians had mostly short velvet-like cover, except atop their heads. The felinoids ranged from the short to the long fur and the ursidains had fur several inches thick at times.

Thanks to this, everyone had grooming kits. Small bundles that unrolled into a selection of tools for removing knots, brushes for straightening ruffled patches and even small scissors for the removal of that which will not obey its owner. These self-grooming tools were common. Even children would have their own, despite lacking the scissors.

With a body worth of fur, it was expected that one would need to maintain their own pelt.

But, that did not stop the need for those who could take an unmoulded medium of unsculpted head fur and turn it into something that pulled the owner's chin up, push their chest out and whisper into their ear that a strut was needed from them. There were groomers of course, beings would like up and would be brought back into acceptable appearances via a groomer who just wanted to get as many customers sorted as they could.

But then there was Notila.

Notila was a taurian and had dedicated himself to this act of artistry. His medium, was other's fur.  He could take a loveless taurian woman and with his tools, a bit of product and a peptalk, turn her into a taurian who's horns rivalled the very mountains. He had managed celebrities, lords and even royalty. More than once had he had received gifts to his private shop as thanks for his work, it was so life changing. Everyone wanted him to 'do' their fur.

The taurian male, draped in the finest shimmering silks, and glittering gold jewellery, from his own little kingdom, enjoyed the fact that he was the premier stylist in the system. Twenty-two billion souls and they all dreamed for him to cut their fur.

So, when the human settled down into Notila's chair for the fifth time and asked for a 'short, back and sides'. Notila clasped his hands together and touched the sides of his palms to the tip of his snout. With his eyes closed, Notila took in a calm and steading breath. The human watched the gold bangles tinkle together as the taurian remained still for a moment, seemingly gathering his thoughts.

"You live in the same high security building as me and you're human. This is why you can get your hair cut here every few months." The taurian explained carefully to the human. His many earrings sparkling in the light.

"Without throwing myself to narcissism, it would be... disingenuous to not point out that this career of mine has made me the number one in my craft..." The bull continued. The human at this point was merely looking up at the male, blinking innocently. His fine silks were flawless, despite being in his shop most of the day, the taurian's robes were nary a jot out of place. Not a single errant strand of fur or hair lay on his clothes.

"I could make you anything." The hornless taurian promised. "Your hair is sculpt-able. Malleable. I could make every man, woman and child look at you and want to *be* you." Notila opened his eyes and gazed at the customer that sat waiting in the chair that could easily have been a throne elsewhere. The human's lips pulled into a tight smile and nodded gently in understanding as Notila's palms, still pressed together, fell and pointed at the human.

"So why do you torture me so and ask to have everything lopped off every time?!" The taurian demanded with a serious tone, 'almost' glaring at the customer.

"It's what I want?" Replied the human dumbly. Notila's mind crashed to a desktop before rebooting causing him to stutter in his response, his fists clenched immediately.

"Bu- You- It-" The taurian had to physically stop himself from allowing his now outstretched hands from throttling the beligerant alien. "Fine. You want to be shaved? We'll shave you." The taurian snapped, waving a dismissive hand above his head as if throwing the idea of anything else away. Having a small tantrum from being denied, Notila put away his tools and went to get his clippers, almost unused except for when the human arrived.

"You know shaving is seen as sickness or punishment right?" The taurian called back, grabbing the clippers from the drawer and sneering at them before stomping back in a display almost never seen in male taurians. They were meant to be grace, untouched by the world around them. But Notila had been denied his passion in his own shop one too many times.

In his defence, the human was not unaware of the taurian's distress, but knew that he couldn't be bothered to keep up with whatever design the exuberent taurian gave him.

"I didn't... but... Look... If you were to-" Sputtered the human, suddenly acutely aware something was wrong. His words however, sharked hope within the taurian's breast.

"*Yes?!*" Notila replied, practically running back over to his customer, and swinging himself around the back of the chair and landing against the counter the human was sat infront of. This was the furthest he had ever got with the fleshy alien; was he about to agree!?

"I'm not going to be able to keep up with whatever you do. It would look like a great hairstyle, but then tomorrow it would just be back to my usual messy style. I don't want to disappoint you by wearing it wrong." Explained the human carefully, trying to articulate the issue.

Notila took a breath, and hesitated before he answered with a calm and steady tone.

"So it's not that you're allergic to fashion?" He asked.

"No, I'm just lazy." Admitted the human.

"My dear, lazy I can deal with. You ever met my kind's 'other half'?" Grinned the taurian, merely mentioning the ladette ladies of his own species.

"So you wont care if I don't keep it up?" Questioned the man, unsure where this was going. If fiddling with his hair made the hornless flamboyant bull happy; why wouldn't he let him?

"Oh, I absolutely will. It would be like throwing mud at a painting the day after it was finished." Admitted Notila.

"Oh." The wind being stolen from the human's sails. "Then-"

"I will come to yours each morning and personally complete your hair." Interjected the alien with a sharp, toothy grin.

"Wha-" The human started, but lost his voice, mouth opening and closing like a fish on dry land.

"Let me style your hair, let me tame these beautifully long strands into art and I will make the effort to come to you any day you plan to be seen in public. If, by the time of your next haircut, you want to go back?" A casual shrug, foreign to the taurian normally, but he was appealing to the human at this moment; manners be damned.

"Then I shall never mention it again and will live my remaining days happy that I was able to show you your potential at least once."

The pair were sat in silence for a time, the taurian perfectly still, his many dangling bits of jewellery not even 'tinkling' together he was so still. Until he decided to push it just a bit further.

"After all, I can bring a squidgit to the water, but I cannot force it to drink." He finished with a grin, then showed his hands.

In his left; shearers.

In his right; scissors.

The human sighed and gave a flat smile again.

"I am a blank canvas. I trust you."

-- 0 --

When the human turned his head from one side to the other, he had to admit; he would have *never* picked this.

A mohawk, His sides were still shaved, but with intricate patterns and strange shapes gently sculped into his hair line. Not only that, but the dye that Notilas had used was special. As and when heat was applied; it would change colours gradually. The man had been shocked when Notilas had started using a hairdryer to dry off his hair and watched in the mirror how it went from a deep purple, to blue, to yellow, to red. The taurian was of course, grinning from ear to ear the entire time. Even the man's beard had not been safe from Notila's ministrations as swooping curls had been finely shaved into it using the very edge of a scalpel.

As the human stood from the chair, and looked at himself in the mirror, inspecting the hair and hairline, but also leaning in and running the tips of his fingers over the swirls in his beard; he liked how it felt, even if it was rather loud compared to his usual fare.

As the human straightened, his usual slouch; didn't suit the bold and powerful style.

Briefly frowning, the man straightened. His spine clicked as he pulled his shoulders back.

So long had the man spent trying to get by, he'd attempted to hide himself in plain sight. But the powerful symbol he now wore needed, or rather demanded attention.

Turning and checking himself in the full-length mirror, the human felt... seen.

"Huh..." He murmured.

"My dear human... If you had merely said it was a lack of habit, I would have offered this when you had first arrived. You deserve to be seen. I'm not ignorant to you or your people's plight. It is your, and your kind's duty to bellow and bleat against the crowd now. To be seen. Heard. If nothing else remembered."

The human smirked, still getting used to standing tall.

"Maybe you're right..."

"Of course I am. Look at me! I'm the great Notilas!"

[r/WolvensStories]

[Ko-Fi]

[actual-bill-potts]

(Continued from this post)

After breakfast, Earwen cleared the plates away. Finrod had attacked his food like one who was starving - and Finarfin supposed he had been, long ago and far away, when he had fallen in the dark - and had seemed a little in shock afterwards. Perhaps it was the absence of the desperation he had felt in his last weeks - Finarfin shuddered again at the borrowed memory - or the ease with which what he wanted could be obtained. Or perhaps he was merely still unused to eating, after so many years without a body. Finarfin had heard that it could be so.

Still, his son leapt to his feet and offered to help. “Please,” he said, “I have done nothing to help you, all yesterday and today.”

Earwen shook her head and clapped him companionably on the shoulder. “You have been back for so little time that I keep stumbling over the sight of you. I insist you let yourself rest, and do nothing for at least one six-day.”

When Finrod still looked doubtful, she had looked over at Finarfin and laughed. “Besides, your father would never speak to me again if I assigned you such a menial duty, when he is looking at you like you hung the Valacirca and set Tilion’s course yourself.”

Finrod met Finarfin’s gaze, startled, and Finarfin blinked back. He realized belatedly that he had indeed been staring at Finrod for far too long. It was just that he was so familiar! So familiar, and so dear! How - how - how had he gone an Age without seeing his children? He did not know. The grief for his other dear ones warred in his heart with the rising crest of joy that would not be denied: his eldest was home! Home, and safe, and himself. It was nearly unbelievable.

Finrod looked as if he were about to say something; but after a moment he dropped his gaze. His eyes so often fell away from Finarfin’s face, as if afraid of a blow, or a rejection. As if there could be one, as if Finarfin would be capable - !

He wanted to explain, to take Finrod by the shoulders and tell him of all the messages he had choked down within himself for years uncounted: for him, for all their children. In the early days he had wandered about the rooms of their old family home like one whose fëa had departed, thinking, my children, my children, I am sorry if I ever said you were too loud; come back, for this house sounds like my father who is dead. 

He had sat upon Ingoldo’s bed and thought, my eldest, my son, what will I do without your laugh; had wandered in upon a half-finished painting of Artaresto’s and felt all the colors run together in his mind; tripped blindly over Angaráto’s hunting bow and Aikanáro’s bangle of necklaces, tangled together in the hallway; come upon a little mirror that Artanis had crafted at but twenty years of age and stared into it for an afternoon as if her face would suddenly swim into being, laughing: see, Atar, I have hidden from you again! You are not very good at finding me.

And then the many years after, holding messages for his children that would never - as he thought - be delivered. For Findaráto, it had most often been stories of the court: little exasperations, or funny moments that he thought his eldest would like. For so long, he had turned automatically to Findaráto with little observations or the beginnings of ideas, for his son had a gift for spinning out his tangled thoughts into a beautiful weft and then handing it back to him all shimmering. It had taken him so long, nearly a hundred years into his long exile - for it was an exile, sealed away from his family as much as they were trapped away from him - to break himself of the habit. 

But now Finrod was here.

Finarfin shook himself; mustered all the gentleness that was left inside him after forty years of war; smoothed away the lingering frustration and grief that Finrod could not trust him; and said, “Shall we find you a comb?”

Finrod laughed suddenly, and Finarfin nearly jumped. That sound - he had not heard it in so long! The clearness of it!

Finrod laughed again, and said, “I suppose my hair must be a sight. Yes, let us - and help would be most welcome, if you are still willing.”

“Of course,” said Finarfin, and led Finrod up the stairs. He made his way to the chambers he shared with Eärwen and rummaged about for a little before finding what he sought. Then he bustled out again, meeting Finrod, who again was hovering uncertainly in the doorway.

“Let us go to your room,” said Finarfin, brandishing his prize. “There is a new style of brush which is all the fashion in Tirion now. Rather than being sung or carved into shape from wood, it is made of goats’ hair. One rubs a little oil into the bristles before brushing. I have found that it does wonders for how my hair lays, and it makes the braiding much less painful later.”

Finrod’s eyes lit up. “I have seen this before!” he exclaimed. “Well - not this exact comb - but the Dwarves used a very similar implement to care for their beards. I believe it was made of boar-bristles. I wonder that we never thought to use it on our own hair!” His smile turned wistful. “But then, perhaps it is not so surprising. Relations could be - difficult, and there was much else to think about.”

Finarfin thought of the Great War, ended not four hundred years past. He remembered how the dirt and the blood and the filth had worked their way into every crevice he possessed, caking his hair and face - how he had wanted to cut it short, and only kept it long thanks to the advice of his Sindar advisors. He remembered the tiring dull periods between battles, and how there were always warring factions to be kept in check, commanders to be pacified, supply lines to organize, little squabbles to calm, and of course his appearance desired everywhere, for all wanted to know that the king was there, and that he had heard their grievances, and was confident the war was not going ill…

“Not surprising at all,” he agreed at last, softly. “War is - terrible, and tedious, and all-consuming. And you were fighting for a very long time.”

The smile dropped from Finrod’s face. “How easy it is to forget,” he murmured, “that you too went to battle. My gentle father! I am sorry. All our effort, all that pain, and in the end it was - useless.” He looked up at Finarfin, eyes pleading. “I really believed it, you know,” he said. “I believed it, when we set out on the road. That we stood a chance. That we could defeat the Moringotto, or at least hold him back from our home. That I could build a safe place for our people. Yet all was in vain, and you were wiser than I.”

Finarfin stood in the hallway, brush in hand, and felt the words strike to the heart of him. How he had longed to hear that, from anyone! For years uncounted as he had labored alone to build anew the trust between Noldor and Teleri, as Eärwen had looked coldly at him and then turned her face away, as his father was silent in Mandos and his mother retreated from him in grief. He had longed, in anger and then in despair, for someone - anyone - to come back, and say, You were right. I was wrong. I am sorry.

But now it rang hollow. Finarfin did not want that. Not if it came from his son, standing before him tired and in disarray. Not if it was paired with yet all was in vain. Not if it came at the price of Finrod’s tired eyes and hollow cheeks.

And besides -

Finarfin brushed past I am sorry with barely a thought, and said, “You shall not stand before me and name your efforts useless.”

This was another thing he had wanted to say to Finrod, and there was nothing now preventing him.

“Do you know,” he said, “have you thought - how terrible was the onslaught of the Valar in Beleriand! How bright the armor of the Maiar, how shining the eyes of my mother’s people! Círdan trusted us, for Ulmo’s sake; but even Gil-Galad was wary. How much more so the Noldor who were Doomed, the Sindar who refused the call West - to say nothing of Dwarves and Men! We very nearly found ourselves arrayed against an alliance of mortals and Avari before we could strike a single blow against Morgoth. And I do not blame them! How could they trust us, who were so tall and so strange, and came dressed for war?”

He paused to breathe, chest tight. Finrod was staring at him transfixed.

“And then,” Finarfin continued. “They saw me. Or rather - they saw you. They saw you in my face. And at once they laid down their arms.”

He stopped again. The moment was graven in fire on his heart: stepping out bareheaded and pleading in front of a crowd of shaking and dirty Beleriandrim, hoping they would just listen. The utter silence that had fallen. The clatter of falling weapons his son’s epitaph.

“Everywhere I went, I heard the whispers. Felagund. Atandil, Edennil, Friend-of-Men. Angolodh. You came before me and smoothed the way, as a father should do for his son - not a son for his father! There was not a place I could go where I was not gathered close to the hearts of the people. From everyone, I heard of you; by everyone, I was asked about you. Do you know - did you know - how you were loved?”

“Yes,” said Finrod. His breathing was ragged, and grief had settled upon his shoulders like the heavy mantle of his House: proudly worn yet wearying. “Yes. It was the greatest gift I have ever been given.”

“Then - then do not say useless!” said Finarfin. “For it was not. You were not forgotten. The Dwarves of Nogrod allied with us for love of Felagund; the Men of Brethil, for love of Nóm; the Sindar for Finrod the Beloved. I was - I am - so proud. My son! My son, who has surpassed his father!”

Finrod was looking at him with wet eyes. He did not move. 

“I did not expect this!” he said at last. “I expected - I do not know. Fury, perhaps. We parted in such anger; and if, as you say, our efforts were not vain, they yet led to pain and death.” His eyes were distant. “My little brothers! Yet you are kind.”

Finarfin, still clutching the comb, crossed the distance between them and gathered the other in his arms. Finrod’s chest rose and fell against his own; his golden head was laid upon Finarfin’s shoulder.

“If you think,” Finarfin said, “that I could ever love you any less, or welcome you with any feeling other than joy, then I think that you have not been paying attention.”

Finrod was still; and after a moment Finarfin stroked his son’s bright head, and said gently, “Come, hinya - let me at least take care of your hair.”

#finrod #finarfin #once again just detailing every fucking minute of finrods return cuz i have incurable brainworms #silm fic #my writing #earwen

[bts5sosempire]

the tyrant (iv)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: sukuna ryomen x reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 4,094

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: old time period, mention of arranged marriage, polygamous marriages, slow-burn yandere, power imbalances, peer pressure, gaslighting, mention of manipulation, dark content, mention of child neglect and abuse, etc.

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: "you were the apple of Sukuna's eyes, the one who brought him solace and everything. The only thing you were incapable of was giving him a child, an heir he wished to spoil like he did to you."  

𝐚/𝐧: guess we’re reaching the pivotal point of the story where it’s gonna start taking a turn here on out 😈. churning on what I can onto my WIP archive. btw, please comment below the “comment” section for tagging. likes, comments, and reblogging are greatly appreciated too 💟 have a nice day bbs!

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

With the Fall Festival coming in an embrace to celebrate bountiful harvest and family joining together, you were standing in the middle of your room, facing a long mirror that Sukuna acquired from abroad from the western world when trading. Yumi and the other servants were fitting you for the special occasion as they layer you in countless pieces of clothing. The kosode was snugged around you tightly, keeping you warm from the upcoming chilling wind.

Speaking of Sukuna, he has been busy as of late; you were thankful for being able to breathe without him constantly eyeing your every move, but despite that, he settled down with his little spies around the castle to inform him about your stock status. Fiddling with your thick jeweled bangle around your wrist, you peer down and notice that the lock is quite loose. With a hard press in between your thumb and forefinger, you tried to bend the golden clasp to mold around the safety securely. But it's useless.

"Have you heard anything from Yuji?" Asking Yumi, who briefly looks up at you while fanning your kosode out behind you before looking back down.

Yumi: "From what I heard, he should arrive here in less than ten minutes."

There was a slight smile on your red rogue lips, "That's good." Readjusting your stance, the servants around you did a final touch-up on your hair and cosmetics. Turning around to exit your chamber, the screen door opens as you hold your head high.

Out into the main halls, other servants were bustling around alone after another or in groups. Meanwhile, each of them holds something in their hands or arms. They all greet you with a quick bow, mutter your title out, and make a way when you pass by before falling back into the routine.

After twisting and turning from many corners, you've reached the large entrance, where the welcoming banquet was thrown. Sukuna was already there, seated in his best midnight robes with stitches of gold and red in an intricate design that was carefully crafted only for him. There was already laughter ringing as concubines were talking amongst themselves. Across the main banquet room, on the left, was a Zen yard that divided children from dining with their parents. The children had their special mini banquet for them to feast while being under the watchful eyes of many countless nannies and guards. Tonight was filled with glee.

Stepping foot into the room, your presence was sensed immediately, and the chatter quieted, but not enough to kill the mood. Hanami quietly observes, sitting on the left next to Eisha. You made your way to the side and situated yourself next to Sukuna on the right. Sukuna glanced at you, but it quickly faded (you didn't even dare to acknowledge him). The unspoken and unresolved tension was noticeable, and no one dared to point it out. When it comes to you and Sukuna, the atmosphere is either rather scary, depressing, or heavy, like a dark cloud brewing over you two, with thunder rumbling at a distance.

Eisha cast a subtle view before facing forward. No words of sweet admiration from Sukuna? She smiles on the inside; there's nothing new with you and Sukuna; Eisha knows that Sukuna won't be mad for long. Still, she takes the leisure of enjoying the bitterness when you both had to offer to one another. It's rather intoxicating, knowing that it will remain stagnant.

"Open the doors and start guiding the guests to their assigned seats," Sukuna commanded, and a servant nodded before running off to complete their objective. The room remained quiet immediately, as not a word was spoken.

You nimbly pick up a small snack from the plate and gently place them inside your mouth.

As important guests pour in one by one or with their spouse, you gingerly watch until another pick hair comes into view. Yuji walks into the room with two people that you remember he mentions in the letters. Megumi Fushiguro and Nobara Kugisaki. The two children he had made friends with while staying at the Gojo compound.

Yuji talks animatedly with them both; as you can see, they're already fed up with him as their faces grimace. You could see Yuji pointing to you, urging Megumi and Nobara to look before waving excitedly like a puppy, and you smiled politely back at Yuji. You couldn't determine what they were saying, but Megumi pushed little pink hair starfish Yuji to their assigned seat as you assumed to free the entrance from being blocked. Nobara only sighed heavily at their antics from where you could see.

It's not long before your Aunt Setsuko steps into the room; she is suddenly glamor by the attention of older men and women alike. They all compliment how she could remain youthful and beautiful despite being forty-three. Hanami's moods sour on the side, and sparks of hatred seem to fly across the room as no one notices how your Aunt Setsuko gives out a discreet smug look of happiness from ruining her rival's evening. In a blink of an eye, your Aunt Setsuko's demeanor changes to elegance.

Waiting patiently for another twenty minutes, you look up from your snacks as you feel yourself freeze. From the entrance, you could see someone, their dark hair cascading down their back that is partially tied up. Your breath was caught up in your throat. You could feel it closing up. Past feelings and affection for them start to swell up in your chest again; oh, how much you miss him. Trying to remain indifferent as possible, it didn't go unnoticed under Sukuna's hawk eyes that remained trained on you; under his half-lidded stare, how your chest suddenly inhaled a breath and released it shakily. Even you went rigid.

Sukuna's eyes flitted to Geto Suguru, the bastard who still occupied your heart. The smile blossoms on his lips when he sees Suguru, who is equally astonished upon seeing you again, but he quickly regains composure once he sees the directive eyes of Sukuna. Sukuna, who didn't break eye contact, wanted to make sure Suguru knew who you belonged to, "How do you like my gift?"

This made you snap out of your daze. You cast an accusing look at him, your brows furrowing in anger and confusion.

Sukuna leans down, the tip of his nose close enough to touch your ear lobe, and his warm ticklish breath hits your cheek. He also purposely ensures that Suguru gets a good look, "I will make him miserable," whispering lowly into your ear. You didn't dare to budge or move. Your jaws were locked tightly that even your fists were balled ups that your pearly white knuckles were shown through the skin. Sukuna then chuckles deeply. From every angle, it looks like you both are a loving couple; you could feel the gazes piercing through you.

From the guest seating area, your Aunt Setsuko masks her displeasure expression behind a drawn hand fan as her eyes glower upon seeing Suguru. It then fled to you, seeing your facade slowly crumbling despite your trying to build it back up. What did you do? She could see the devilish expression that Sukuna was wearing. Whatever you did will be needed to be dealt with. It won't be good if anyone catches on.

Suguru then took his assigned seat; it felt like he was standing forever. He then didn't look your way again, for he was tense as you were when he finally saw you again. It's been five years since he last heard from or made contact with you. He forced himself to look forward no later than how much he wanted to rear his head your way. If he does look your way, he would be overwhelmed and flooded with emotions seeing your face again, but somehow he saw how restricted you had forced yourself. Suguru isn't stupid to pinpoint the why; your husband made you jaded with how much exertion you continuously build to keep Sukuna at bay.

"Is this what you wanted? Revenge?" You whisper right back at Sukuna, who once again chuckles.

Sukuna: "How could you think lowly of me?"

You: "It's not lowly when my opinion of you is below ground level."

"Then yes, it's revenge. You've denied me for so long, hurting me too. I'm just giving you back what you did to me." Sukuna taunts you, and you want to roll your eyes so badly.

"Me hurting you? You hurt yourself, not me; I made it clear, yet you push and prod me." There was a slight edge that sounded heavy with malice. "You wish to grasp something that is out of your control."

As if your words were not affecting him, Sukuna didn't take it to heart like he always did this time; somehow truth still lies in those words. "I will make you love me one way or another; you don't want to see him end up dead, do you?" This caught your attention, and Sukuna cruelly snickers. Before you could retort with a remark, Sukuna cuts you off, "It would be your fault if he somehow left behind two children too." Sukuna could see how a dubious expression settled on your face, but it got the message across. His capabilities to make it a reality if he wishes to. You didn't know if Suguru got married or not. Of course, you don't; how could you? A part of Sukuna hates seeing you deplorable, but this was a lesson for you. "Do you wonder who he married? Does it hurt knowing it wasn't you?" Slowly weaving himself inside your head, Sukuna never thought he would see another side of you as he dug deeper and deeper.

A weakness.

(Surname) clanswoman was prideful and forthright, but you look quite the opposite; right now. If Sukuna could laugh out loud at his discovery, he would, but seeing you in this naked state of mind, just using Suguru as a threat, exhilarates his interest. Is this the real you?

Now, this got Sukuna wondering if he should press on. Seeing how soft and pliable you look stirs his pools, despite your will waning. The temptation of breaking you dilated his pupils with such craze that he suddenly backed off from you slowly. Thus your resolute self returned once he was not in your space anymore. Still, you're quite a bit shaken. Sukuna had planned to torture you more, but this exceeded his expectations.

Sukuna didn't want to prolong the banquet; for he had a lifetime to strip you. You are already an addiction in his mind, slithering in every nook and cranny of his cranium. It's only fair for him to do it right back, even if it was unpleasant on your end. His mood shifted happily as he grabbed his cup and gave an ovation toast to the room's crowd. "I'm glad that everyone has accepted my invitation and decided to join this glorious event," putting on an impromptu act of class, Sukuna eyes every person in the room, but his gaze lingers on Suguru, who pierces right back at him. Smiling wide with his teeth shown, Sukuna's strawberry orbs glow with mockery to test and see how long Suguru was willing to accept his taunting and humiliation. No one knows the hidden smile that Sukuna is projecting; they all assume it was a typical behavioral trait from the Lord.

"To my wife, Eisha," Sukuna made a loving gesture to her, and Eisha smiled politely back at Sukuna to keep up with the farce. "Who had spent countless hours and times of her days to make this event possible..." Going off in his speech, Sukuna talks about being grateful and portrays himself as the perfect family man.

You only sit in silence and listen to the vernacular and nit-pick everything apart. Everyone may buy his bullshit, including the harem; it's not hard to believe if you're naive enough to buy it. You always knew from the bottom of your heart how Sukuna divides his love and attention, a dose to keep someone floating to come back begging for more. Easier for him to manipulate and control. He is a man whose mind could easily conform others to his cause if he gives them something to believe in; if not, he's good at negotiating to give someone a false benefit, but it only benefits him above all else. Everything is always a transaction to him, nothing more.

Once the speech ended, the applause went off, and your attention shifted again.

Your Aunt told you to follow her quietly, and you notice how her mood has been depleted. Any kindness left her the moment she saw Suguru and your reaction.

Once you both are far enough away from all earshot, she lets her fury be known. "You insolent child, do you know what you could've cost me?" Setsuko seethes out, face lashing out with anger. You understand this demeanor very well; you saw this countless times during your first stay with her. Anything that isn't delivered to perfection will be handled with outrage. "I've raised you to be absolute. Have you forgotten anything I put inside your brain?" The manners and duties of a woman. "We (Surname) women are not made of weaknesses; we strive to be the finest among all."

Despite remaining stoic and quiet, your Aunt could see how detached you'd become from the mold she had pounded you into since childhood this evening. And it's all because of Suguru. It's all his fault. The number of times she has made you perfect came crumbling when that man came around, how you become unruly and unladylike. Almost untamable. Too alive.

"What leeway did you give for Sukuna to invite a lowborn?" Setsuko demand.

"I didn't give him anything." You told her back and steeled yourself from what would come next.

Your Aunt Setsuko's face twists more, with anger prominently overtaking her elegance, "Do you know what happens when you lie to me, child?" You shudder at the thought, and your past comes back flooding. The nostalgic pain of your heels and calves being whipped by a thin stick until you bleed and couldn't walk properly, sit, or sleep as it hurt too much at night. If not that, then you would have to spend countless days scribing down numerous copies of books and family scripts from dawn to dusk with a needle pointing directly at your throat hidden underneath your clothes to ward off any thoughts of sleeping or your head drooping too low.

Then Suguru came into your head.

He was gentle with you, despite your Aunt having to shoo him away rudely or making guards patrolling the area to make sure to get rid of Suguru on sight. Suguru comforts you by sneaking into your Aunt's compound any time of the day by applying ointment to your wounds or helping you scribe down texts; he never once stifles you. He allows you to be who you are with him. The old days when he sneaked you out of the house to go on a horseback ride with him down the rivers, creeks, and forest. When he and you spend time under the stars sneaking kisses and giggling with each other. To give gifts for each other with the thought of each other. You still remember going to the village to eat delicacies with Suguru you were forbidden to eat when you were out with your Aunt. In the end, you feel safe and see with him that love blossoms between you.

"Fix your face this instant," Setsuko deeply growls out "that pitiful look doesn't suit you." You didn't realize what kind of face you were making when thinking about Suguru, but your Aunt thought it was her that caused you to make that expression.

Straightening yourself with a deep breath, you square and pose your shoulders to give off a strong impression like you were always taught. Setsuko's face eased for a fraction, but the look remained. She looks out where the crowds are gathered, idling around, worshipping the gold and food that was platter out for them to greed. Setsuko's cast her vision to Suguru, who was surrounded by other women who had their daughter(s) conjoined to them by the hips, selling them out to him. She sneers with a click of her tongue in distaste. Shameful, their eyes speak of nothing but greed, power, and camaraderie. Although Setsuko has to admit she may have underestimated Suguru's potential.

Suguru was a second born to the seat of the Geto clan, but an unknown and unnamed illness had taken both his father and older stepbrother a few years prior back together. Seeing him here didn't smooth the knots of prejudice Setsuko had against the young man; in fact, a pit in her stomach feared that he might be the denotation that would undo all her hard work. He has become prominent in social standing.

Then her eyes were thrown around, seeing how some of Sukuna's concubines were swelling with child. Another reminder of why she was also here too. Setsuko motions for you to stand next to her, "Do you see them?" She questions, her sharp eyes viewing you out of the corner. You trail after where she set her sights on, and it was the concubines. "Have you failed to do your womanly duty?" You know what she was referring to.

"We're trying." Lying through your teeth, you hope that your Aunt won't question you, but it's impossible to bypass her.

"Really? Then you would've at least had two children and swelling with another on the way." She cruelly remarks. Sometimes you wish that you weren't so grateful to her when she dehumanizes you like this. "You are the only child my brother and sister-in-law sired; that is my blood." Sometimes you are stubborn, almost like your father, to the point where Setsuko thinks if it's worth raising you and that you aren't so defective to cause a collapse in her plans. "There have been talks from the clan about sending in Kuromi and Enyaru's daughter Wakana to marry Sukuna since she's of age."

You: "For what reason?"

"To dethrone you, and they won't fully support me if you can not bear a child," Setsuko told you as a matter of fact, "I may have arranged you to marry a man that was unattainable if it weren't for Tsugahara's affection to allow me sending you in, but it's not enough to solidify to grant me a spot to become one of the Thirteen Elders of (Surname)." There were also inner conflicts within the clan that wasn't known outside; your Aunt had been competing against her half-brother Enyaru for the longest time for the seat about a decade. Their hostility to each other and the need to gather support from the clan have split them into two factions—Setsuko vs. Enyaru.

With a quick clench of your jaws, you finally realized. You're a pawn, no matter what. Maybe it was your swear great devotion to her that overridden every thought that was supposedly your own. Despite how badly she may have treated you.

"Why me? Why not one of your daughters? Mari and Aimei? They would've been a better candidate than me." You ask the daunting question, and a scoff of laughter emerges in the air.

Setsuko laughs as if you had asked the funniest question, "Mari and Aimei resemble more of their father despite their beauty, but you, you resemble me much more than those two. You're my perfect piece for taking down that old hag." Unraveling her true nature, you finally see the side that causes your Aunt to go to great lengths to acquire the revenge she has been dreaming of. "Every day, I want her to see you, and when she does, she will be reminded of me until her last breath!"

This side of your Aunt unnerves you. She looks happy to see your mother-in-law Hanami fall into demise. The pieces fall together more and more as you connect everything; you hear how your Aunt Setsuko was once a fair and bright woman in her youth who treated everyone fairly with no malice, but upon hearing Tsugahara's marriage and a scar of betrayal that hurts too much to heal properly has changed her overtime. Her smiles that were once sincere turn to hidden intentions, and words that were once uplifting have become enchanting to make people do her bidding.

Now you also understand why people who were once close to her say how you're like her younger version; they love the old her, but not this her.

You're constantly reminded that you like a breath of fresh yet familiar air.

It wasn't until your Aunt silently told you to recompose yourself before leaving your side to go back to mingle and make connections. You let the facade drop again. In your state, you felt no desire to go back to the banquet or be a pretty doll sitting and smiling; you might ruin the night with your unstable sentiments.

Most of all, you were feeling perturbed; it's becoming second nature to you as more things occupy your mind when the bitter truth is suddenly splashed on top of you like cold water. Your fate has been pre-mandated ever since your birth. You let out a quiet bitter chuckle to yourself; a part of you feels resigned, and the other is angry. Tears overwhelm your vision as it blurs.

Moving deeper into the darkness, you whisp past the countless bamboo that glows a faint blue under the moonlight. You didn't stop walking until you reached a clear opening in the middle where wildflowers grow, and the sound of people was no longer heard. Deep outside the estate, no one dares to venture this far to find solace.

Collapsing onto the flower bed, its petals ruffles and float into the air upon impact; you finally cry out everything, and both hands fist a handful of the flowers before pulling them off the ground. Angrily tossing it away, you did it a few more times before stopping, letting your hands fall onto your lap; loud sobbing echoes around and under the moon. You thought about how life is truly unfair to you. You're alone in this world.

An Aunt who only uses you to fulfill her desires and revenge for the sake of competition, bitterness, and climbing to the top. Her anguish was taken out on an innocent person like you. Sukuna, who is openly obsessed with you and loves you in his twisted way, that there were no words that can describe the tortures of it. The harem that is ready to rip you apart if one day you were to lose favor from him, your death could as well be planned too.

Then there's is... Suguru.

Yes, him.

The only person who you have only loved your entire life.

Why couldn't you be with him instead?

"(Name)?"

Tearfully turning around, you spot the dark clothing and hair of Suguru. He comes out into the open, and you break down crying again.

You: "S-Suguru."

The man kneels on one knee as he takes you into his arms and rubs soothing circles onto your back. Your arms found their natural way of embracing someone still dear to you. Right now, you don't need anything but the warmth of someone who happens to be Suguru that comes out to chase after you.

"It's okay, I am right here," he speaks softly to you. The reassurance in his voice causes you to release the tension that has been bottling up for years, and today's problems seem to have broken your dam.

"You shouldn't, you'll get in trouble," hiccupping out the words, Suguru's chest ached at the sight of you crying. His expression is filled with forlornness as he tightens his grip around you and pulls you deeper into his chest. He cradles the back of your head with a free hand, and his nose nuzzles into your hair as he shushes you. Whenever you're in pain, he does his best to take it away.

"Well, what do we have here?"

Another voice joined, and the embrace was cut short when a flurry of black, red, and gold was shining upon from the moon. Sukuna stands there with his face obscure from the direct light, but his eyes grow dangerously. Your blood ran cold.

"A man like you dares to coddle up my wife?"

Taglist: @sukunasobject @lilliansstuff @lucyrocks86 @ladywolf44005 @watyousayin @sandronebabyy @pinkrose1422 @skepticalleo @please-help-therapy-needed @whatsonthemirror @krispsprite @loser-alert @saturnknows @samidrc @littlemochi @akigoat @mxghostbee @rose4958​

#fan fiction #jujutsu kaisen #masterlist #jjk sukuna #jjk x reader #anime #sukuna ryomen #jjk fanfic #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen x reader #sukuna #jujutsu kaisen x reader #yandere imagines #yandere fanfiction #yandere x reader #yandere fic #yandere #yandere sukuna #yandere headcanons #yandere sukuna ryomen #yandere sukuna x reader

[gabessquishytum]

Dream is a highly sought after jewelry maker; just because he's an expensive artisan doesn't make him less of a weirdo; it just means that his partner Hob (who is as much a weirdo as Dream is) is decked out in expensive marks of ownership.

After their first date, Dream (stayed up for 2 days making) made Hob a jewel-encrusted collar; Hob made him put it on in the restaurant while they were on their second date. Hob has even started to dress in ways that showed off all the trinkets Dream hand crafted for him -- short sleeves for all the bangles, skirts/scoop neck dress for all the collars & anklets.

Hob walks around their home, which he moved into after Date 3, in nothing but the ropes of pearls or the diamond-studded harness (and his collar of the day) that Dream gifted him with. Dream loves to see Hob is nothing but a pencil skirt and sheer high collar long sleeve shirt (https://tinyurl.com/Pretty-for-Dream) -- Hob is covered from just below his chin to below his knees (so prim), but Dream can still see all the /above/ the belt) jewelry he designed for Hob - the collar, the nipple rings, the navel ring). Maybe he can hear the ringing of the diamond studded, belled, clit ring.

They don't like to be away from each, so Dream just charges even more for his jewelry -- people who want his work need to pay for the privilege of taking him away from his Hob.

YES BEJEWELLED HOB

I really like the idea of Hob maybe being some kind of onlyfans content creator who basically makes really really arty nsfw content. He charges a BIG monthly fee for subscriptions but damn, its worth it. He's so beautiful to start with, and in every image or video he's absolutely shimmering with these amazing items of jewellery. There are diamond studs in his labia, intricate clit rings, strings of gorgeous jewels and precious metals hanging around his hips. Of course he's basically advertising Dream’s services as a jeweller (IF you can afford to commission a piece from him).

The golden collar enrusted with pearls and diamonds is very popular with viewers (and indeed Dream himself, he can hardly bear to see Hob not wearing it), and sometimes Hob will do a little storytime for his viewers and how wonderful it is to get fucked while his beloved holds him by the collar and pounds into his pussy, making all those pretty piercings jingle...

For their one month anniversary Dream makes a pair of incredible jeweled panties which he designed, created and studded all over with the most precious jewels. Hob has never been so happy with a gift and he insists on wearing the panties everywhere. There's a convenient little popper which means that the panties can also be crotchless - just imagine how much Dream loves fucking Hob while he wears the gorgeous, expensive gift!

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft #trans hob

[rapha3liii]

Abigail, Emily & Haley! (part 1 of my bachelorette art!)

these are just my personal headcanons, mostly in line with my fic! the surnames are just ones I chose myself because I think these gals deserve a little more character :) Image descriptions and in-image text/captions are provided below!

Leah, Penny and Maru are next! (will get to the dudes eventually)

Abigail Mercer:

20 years old attending online university for Anthropology

tall compared to most villagers, even taller than her parents!

nose and bridge piercing done in Zuzu city

hearts drawn on with eyeliner

tattoo of thorned rose

Sam's old denim jacket, she cut the sleeves off with craft scissors

Amethyst gem-set sword commissioned from Marlon, her parents still haven't found it...

Silver bangle gifted from her mother

belly button piercing done by Emily in Sebastians basement, she definitely didn't get an infection from it-

sword tattoo inspired by the first sword she held

usually accompanied by her fathers retired leather satchel, holding her flute case and cool rocks she finds

her fishnets are the only thing shes ever bought from Joja Online and her dad is still mad about it

second hand doc-martins because her parents refused to spend that much on shoes (I don't blame em...)

Emily Larson

26 years old and the towns resident tailor

always wearing contacts!

average height

has helix, ear lobe and vertical eyebrow piercings

Always changing her hairstyle and colour, but blue seems to stick for longer than most!

She regularly attends ren-faires all over the republic

made this miniature cape for Zuzu ren-faire and hasn't stopped wearing it since...

hoop earrings and favourite lipstick given to her by her girlfriend, Sandy!

Wears lots of rings

obsessed with lantern sleeves!

always has her Nazar pendant on!

Acrylic nails are done by her younger sister, Haley!

exclusively wears gold jewellery

hand tailored dress and shirt

shoes are bought from a vintage clothes boutique in Grampleton

always wears her favourite ruffled petticoat under skirts

Haley Larson

18 years old and newly graduated from highschool, now a freelance photographer

shorter (and cuter!) than most

always wearing baby blue eyeshadow

shell necklace gifted to her by Alex, her best friend

cute face mole!

always wearing her grandma's bracelet

always using extra blush and face shimmer!

flowery blouse made by her sister, Emily

loves wearing mini-skirts, shorts and low-waist jeans!

regularly posts her landscape photography to her blog, and even won a local competition once!

her fav pleated skirt

loves swimming and paddleboarding in the sea by the beach!

despite graduating top of her class, she has little interest in academia - but loves art

really wants an ankle tattoo of a sea-shell!

cute strap heels she stole from her sisters wardrobe (Emily still hasn't realised yet)

[Image 1 ID: A digital drawing of Abigail from Stardew Valley holding a sword. She's smiling, with dark lipstick and purple eyeshadow, and has small hearts drawn on her cheeks in eyeliner. She has a bridge, nose and belly button piercing and blue eyes. She's wearing a sleeveless denim vest, with a black tank top underneath and black denim shorts with purple fishnets underneath. She has a tattoo of a rose on her upper right arm and another of a sword on her inner left calf. She has pointed black nails and two bangles on her right wrist. She has black platform boots and has a freckles all over her body. Her hair is a vibrant purple in waves reaching her lower back. In the upper left corner is her in-game sprite by 'ConcernedApe' and the artist's signature 'Rapha3liii' is in the lower right corner. /.End ID]

[Image 2 ID: A digital drawing of Emily from Stardew Valley pinching her dress in both hands in a bowing like gesture. The left side of her head is shaved while the right has straight, blue shoulder length hair. She has purple eyeshadow, pink lipstick and brown eyes. She also has gold helix piercings, a gold vertical eyebrow piercing and golden hoops in her lobes. She is smirking and looking to the right. She is wearing a layered red dress with a long pleated skirt. It has a white ruffled petticoat underneath. Under her red dress is a pink shirt with lantern style sleeves. She has a corset on over the dress with golden buttons and a miniature cape in dark red clasped to her shoulders. Two necklaces are hanging from under her shirt collar, one golden chain and the other a pendent of a 'Nazar'. She has long sharp purple acrylic nails and multiple rings on both of her hands. She is wearing dark red heels with button clasped straps. In the upper left corner is her in-game sprite by 'ConcernedApe' and the artist's signature 'Rapha3liii' is in the lower right corner. /.End ID]

[Image 3 ID: A digital drawing of Haley from Stardew Valley standing casually, smiling, with a tuft of her hair inbetween her fingers in one hand and blue eyes. She has golden blonde hair in waves just reaching her upper back. She has locks of hair over both of her shoulders. She has light blue eyeshadow and bright pink blush and lipstick, she also has a mole on her face just above her lips to the right. She is wearing a low crop blue blouse with short sleeves and a white lined flower pattern on it. She has pink nails and is wearing a necklace of a blue sea-shell with a golden chain and a bracelet with a golden chain and heart pendent. Her left arm is holding her hair while her right arm is crossed over her chest and resting on her other arm. She is wearing a pink pleated mini-skirt and blue heels with small straps around her ankles. In the upper left corner is her in-game sprite by 'ConcernedApe' and the artist's signature 'Rapha3liii' is in the lower right corner. /.End ID]

[Image 4 ID: A digital drawing with the three previously described characters all standing in a line. The order is Abigail to the left, Emily in the middle and Haley to the right. Each character has their in-game character sprite by 'ConcernedApe' on the upper left to them. The artist's signature 'Rapha3liii' is overlayed in three different places on the drawing. /. End ID]

This my first time ever writing image descriptions so please tell me how I did! I read some other blogs and advice prior to writing my own but I understand its likely I got some things wrong! Please let me know if I've formatted or written something in a way that makes the descriptions innacessible! Thankyou

#stardew valley #sdv #stardew velley art #fanart #stardew valley bachelorettes #stardew valley bachelors #my art #my fic #a mutually assured attachment #a mutually-assured attachment #haley sdv #sdv fanart #emily sdv #abigail sdv #haley #emily #abigail #stardew valley abigail #stardew valley emily #stardew valley haley #sdv headcanons #my headcanons #image described #image id

[1800titz]

This one is 13.1K! Not for the faint of heart (•‿•)

PREVIOUS PARTS HERE

Isla Cleery is allergic to pineapple.

She is not, however, allergic to gold, so Harry Styles keeps this butterfly of a fact locked in a jar on his mental shelf as he buys the little trinket to go over her wrist.

Normally, when a man buys a woman a piece of brilliant jewelry, the notion comes from a place of love. It speaks sentiments of adoration, ardor. Devotion.

When a dominant buys a submissive jewelry (at Indulge), the disposition is a little more ...carnal. A little less kissy, touchy, feely — it skips the sentiments of deep sentiments altogether and gets to the point. It's a little less innocent. And the thing is, it still taps into that tenderness of devotion, but the meaning digs into heavier territory.

When a dominant awards a submissive with a piece of brilliant jewelry, the notion comes from a place of ownership.

He'd meant to buy her the bracelet as soon as they'd sat down and signed off on the contract, which inherited stipulations of tying loose ends. Loose ends, being that Peitho was no longer a submissive of free reign prancing upon the plains of Indulge — she wasn't up for grabs, and if she were to be seen at the bar with her typical glass of syrup-drenched cherries, post a scene, (in the rare circumstance that Harry wasn't accompanying her side with a soft hand on the small of her back), she'd be seen with an emblem that signified this. Bracelets and collars were commonplace to be gifted as symbols of monogamy — sort of like a twisted, fucked version of one-sided wedding bands, minus all the actual gravity of wedding bands. It's all sort of a gray area when it comes to language like ownership and dominion, but it doesn't mean more than both parties are comfortable with, and it's a sex thing.

Except, this bracelet goes a little bit beyond a sex thing.

It's definitely still just a sex thing in its essence, Harry thinks, but it's not just an Indulge thing. Because this bracelet won't come off.

When he'd first seen the bracelet on the web, in passing, it'd instantly caught his eye. The wristlet was crafted by a luxury fetish jewelry seller with a quality reputation based on reviews, and upon further inspection, each piece was uniquely handcrafted with intricate attention to detail.

It was ...sweet-looking. A simple, golden bangle with a pair of dangle-y heart charms. Peitho, in her essence, was a simple, sweet girl, Harry had quickly discerned. She certainly wasn't a chains-and-spikes submissive, despite their play encompassing all of the above. The bracelet was very Peitho. It was perfect for her. But the simplicity of the design and its lack of probability for questioning aided further in the kicker — the bangle was locked on by a key through a keyhole the size of a hair pin, and he wasn't keen on handing the key off.

Meaning, the bracelet didn't come off when the lights shut off in the club.

It was a manacle.

And the thought of Peitho wearing a piece of jewelry that symbolizes her submission to him in an innocent, everyday setting made something stir in Harry. It'd cling to her, always. He imagines it over her wrist as she grabs coffee from a cafe before the workday, as she's slotted to her desk at work, as she runs errands, shopping for groceries, as she showers. As she touches herself in her sheets, in her bed, at home. Always manacled by it.

By a piece of him.

It's that thought that has his heart beating a little faster when he beckons her over to him. They're in the White Room and he's sitting in the verdant chair with the little, velvet box tucked away in his pocket, and Peitho clambers from her knees at his instruction. There's bemusement in her gait.

"Come on. Not gonna bite you. Yet," Eros showcases pearly, straight teeth in a smile, and Isla walks to him, curbing the urge to roll her eyes at the quip. As always, despite the shroud of his disguise, he looks absolutely enticing and radiates power.

She's a little caught off guard that he's bid her to make her way to him rather than walked over himself, sunk his fingers into her hair, and craned her neck back to spit into her mouth to manifest the start of their scene, or something. Very Eros thing to do. Once she's stood between his parted thighs, he peers up at her through his lashes. For a silent second, Isla just wonders why men become graced with lashes of such length — they're no use for them, anyhow. It's ridiculous, honestly.

"My lap doesn't have needles or something, does it, love?" is what he says, pillowy rose quirking as her own mouth purses sharply.

So she slots herself onto a thigh, just as he'd implied he wanted from her. She tucks her side to his chest as one of his arms slinks around, his palm settling in the vale of her waist, while the opposite comes to rub over the side of her own thigh. It's oddly domestic for the first interaction to have in a scene.

"I have," his tongue peeks out to glide over his lips, "a little gift for my little Peitho."

She'd be lying if she claimed that his soft words of endearment don't make her feel melty. The accompaniment of his touch does nothing to contrast the sensation.

"Do you, now?"

"I do. It's nothing grand, but — it's just a little something."

She waits patiently when he removes the hand that'd been petting at her thigh and digs it into a pocket of his slacks. When he withdraws a dark, velour, little, squared box, her heart stutters behind her ribcage. He hands it off to her with something soft in his gaze, pausing to watch as she thumbs over the velvety texture.

"The gift is not the box, by the way," he blinks up at her, his mouth twitching, "S'inside. In case you weren't aware."

"Really?" Isla eyebrow raise is veiled by the lace over the upper half of her face, "I had no idea."

Her statement earns her a gentle squeeze over her waist, and, feigning reluctance, she pries the little jewelry box open. Inside, Isla discovers a dainty little bangle of a bracelet — it shimmers in the light, and her pupils rove over it. It's beautiful, delicate, her. The young woman feels her own heart teeming at the sight of the two charms of hearts.

Harry staves off the explanation on the tip of his tongue, just watching her reaction carefully, hoping that she likes it, and when she turns her face up to him, feigning a pout, his chest nearly seizes.

"I thought you were going to propose," she sighs, feigning dismay, and Harry digs his tongue into his cheek as the corners of Peitho's mouth twitch at the difficulty of maintaining the facade. Her head falls back and she laughs, "No, it's beautiful. Thank you. Put it on me. Please."

"You don't want to hear about all the tedious care and craftsmanship that went into it?"

"Sure I do," the young woman examines the jewelry with a curious gaze, her tone almost distracted, "You can put it on me, and then tell me everything."

Her eagerness draws dimples to rise awake in his cheeks, and he compromises by clearing his throat as she withdraws the bangle from the box and hands it off to him. One of his palms wraps over her right hand, and he slides the bracelet up to secure it over her wrist as he starts to talk.

"Well. First off, the sentiment is that it's a bracelet to show everyone that you're mine. Which, like, I would've gotten a collar," he doesn't miss the way the words cause her body language to toe into more ...pliable territory, the way her chest stiffens, and he bridles a smirk, "But," he pauses to deftly snap the ends of the bangle together, and casts his gaze up to her to trace a finger over the decorative collar she always dons over her throat, "You already wear one, and I didn't wanna add to it. I wanted it to be my thing."

As his touch withdraws, Peitho's head ducks to further inspect the new jewelry, but he wrenches her arm back to him, gently, laughing softly, "M'not done."

"I was," his irises flicker up to her, "between silver and gold, but you wore those little gold hoops the one night before you took them off, and I've never seen you wear silver, so I figured gold would be fitting for you. And it is, by the way," a pleather-clad thumb draws over the top of the band, "real gold," his teeth show a bit in a soft grin, "So you don't have to worry about your arm going green."

The attention to detail is truly impeccable. But—

"Real gold?" Isla swallows, "That — I mean it had to be expensive."

Eros just purses his mouth for a moment, and then tells her, cushiony lips curling up a bit, "Quid pro quo."

"Quid pro quo?"

"Sure," he tells her, blinking up at her innocuously despite the shit-eating grin that so obviously yearns to break over his mouth, "You let me do all sorts of scary things to you. S'only fair I get you something pretty in return. It'd be impolite if I didn't."

Isla nearly squawks indignantly at the lewd connotation of his words, but instead, she lets him intertwine their fingers, "Now I just feel like a prostitute."

The little charms swing gently.

"Or you could opt for the sugar baby route. Your choice."

Isla huffs. And then, curiously, she watches him withdraw a little pin-like key from his pocket and stuff it into a tiny slot on the bangle. He twists carefully as he continues, tone focused, "And it's really, like. Innocent, I think. Dainty. So, you don't have to worry about people asking questions."

Something suspicious works its way into her chest, budding, and she inquires, "Yeah. It's really pretty. So, I just use that little pin thing to take it off? Like, to shower?"

The male peers up at her, pausing his handiwork, bemusement morphing the features she can see, "S'gold. You don't have to."

"Right, but. Just to take it off," she clarifies, fully intent on giving him the benefit of the doubt despite the blatancy of the flags marking up the territory of the conversation, "For work, and stuff. You'll show me how to use the little key?"

For a moment Eros just looks up at her, and then the corners of his mouth, a muted berry, buckle smugly, "No."

No? Isla feels the shudder rolling down the knobs of her spine as the dominant licks out and leaves his bottom lip shimmery in the wake of his tongue, before clarifying, no jesting to his cadence, "It doesn't come off. Not for you. I'll have the key."

There's a cocky light to his eyes, and flecks of mischief dance among the forest like folks around a bonfire.

It doesn't come off. Not for you.

Isla considers it, the delicate little bangle, a fragment of Indulge, hooked onto her wrist in every circumstance outside of the club. A fragment of Eros — a staple of his dominion over her. As the key tightens up in its wind and his touch withdraws, the young woman takes a closer look at the wristlet. It really is discrete in its connotation. A love bracelet, that's what anyone else would see it as. She thinks of Sue at work asking her about the mystery man of her affections. Of the chatter that would overtake the break room among the ladies over cheap coffee that was brewed hours prior and vending machine snacks, because Isla hasn't dated since she's started working there. Because Isla doesn't date. Her fingers run over the dangling hearts. She thinks about them brushing over her arm as she reaches for a carton of milk in the grocery store. Of waking with her arm over her pillow, only to discover the reminder each morning as she counts the week days down to Friday.

She's snapped back to reality as Eros takes her hand in his to look over the bracelet.

"Of course," the corner of his mouth paints his soft smile crookedly, "It'll have to come off if I'm tying you up, for safety purposes. But I'll put it back on after."

His pupils flit to her, as if awaiting her response to the entirety of the proposition, but Isla can't really say much when the entire notion has left her brimming with want. The man truly has impeccable timing.

"What if I want to tie myself up when I'm at home?" she finally bites into her cheek, the opportunity to make a joke unwasted.

His gaze narrows, like he's fighting amusement at the maniacal implication, and then the dominant tells her, "Then I think the safety precautions of removing jewelry are the least of your worries."

And then Eros takes the bracelet off of her, and guides her to her knees. He stuffs her mouth full of his cock and weaves his fingers into her hair, tugging sharply, like he always does, just the way she likes. Despite the way he blatantly enjoys receiving oral, especially because she's so eager to give it, he's not keen to finish off in her mouth so quickly in the night. They don't utilize all that much of the space offered by the room this time — instead, he switches spots with her and bends her over the back of the armchair, just as she'd fantasized over a negotiation so many weeks prior. He ties her wrists behind her back with braided cords, and the sturdy skeleton of the chair digs into her ribcage in the best way when he fucks up into her, hard and fast. There's a lot more, in between, too — but those are the important bits.

Sure enough, at the end of the night, he smothers her with soft kisses and coos, and before the night is compassed, he reaffixes the bangle onto her wrist.

The charms brush over her steering wheel, and she fights to keep her eyes on the road the whole way home.

Isla has never scrolled through so many shabby laundry rooms in the span of an hour in her life.

Which — they're laundry rooms, so she doesn't expect luxurious decor like wood-carved spandrels and a gilded chandelier as the focal piece, but for the price, she'd hope there weren't random holes in the walls or images of what resembles mold along the tiling by the baseboards. At least the listings are upfront.

Hopelessly, she slams her laptop shut. She will never buy a house, it seems. Ever. Which, anyways, is a privilege, and perhaps she doesn't even need it. Her apartment is a privilege, and she loves her apartment. The young woman falls back against the mattress and stares at her popcorn ceiling.

Sure, the sink leaks sometimes, and the AC will stall and drop to 45 degrees in the middle of the night, and sometimes her front door gets jammed as if someone's stuck gum into the keyhole. But she's hidden the hole (she's sure has been punched into the wall) in the hallway with a pretty, framed picture of a plant, and the parking lot is nice. It's close to work.

Well. It's close to work if she leaves an hour early to avoid traffic.

There's even a community pool! And, yeah, nobody ever uses it because it's always filled with debris and dead frogs, but she likes having the option. Maybe one day, she'll just decide she wants to take a dip, and none of those houses with shitty mold issues even had pools for the prospect. But anyways, there's not even any mold in her apartment! And, she reasons with herself, there was only one mandatory evacuation of the building for a gas leak last year.

Oh God. She twists the bracelet over her wrist in disdained thought.

The consensus seems to be that she lives in a shitty apartment, and the only listings she can find on zillow seem to be equally as shitty.

Isla blows out a breath. And then she has the flicker of a covert lightbulb over her head. She nearly falls onto the floor in her spasm for her purse, and she rakes through it with hungry fingers. Used up Chipotle gift card. One of those punch cards for a free smoothie with only one of the ten holes punched. A coupon for a half-off manicure. Finally, she culls the little business card. It's a little banged up on the edges, but the phone number is still decipherable. Harry Styles.

She keeps the card in one hand and utilizes her other to replicate the number in the box for a new message with her phone pressed flat to her comforter. It's a Wednesday, and it's seven, so it teems past the professional territory of work-hours, but texts are fine, right? They're, like, an answer-at-your-own-convenience type of thing — it's the entire beauty of texts.

Yeah.

Isla contemplates how the man had been dining on unpaid-for grapes in a grocery store and had randomly stirred up conversation with her, a stranger, regarding the contents of her shopping basket. Yeah, she thinks he won't mind too much to receive a text inquiring about his services at seven on a weeknight.

Hi, Harry! she taps out with her forefinger as the one on the opposite hand becomes siphoned between her top and bottom front teeth. I hope this message doesn't come at an inconvenient time for you. This is Isla Cleery! You gave me your business card after probing and interrogating me on my cherry addiction. Anyways, I've never really done the whole house-shopping thing before, but I'm an interested buyer and I'm not sure where to start. Any way you could steer me in the right direction? Thanks so much.

She twists and flops onto her back unceremoniously. Maybe she shouldn't have made that insert about the cherry thing. She fingers the heart charms and contemplates. Her phone pings. Curiously, she lifts it over her head and looks. It's the undocumented phone number she's just messaged.

Isla Cleery! Did you enjoy your cherries?

Her mouth purses crookedly, and she taps out with her thumbs, I can only hope as much as you were enjoying your grapes.

They were very good grapes, I'll be honest.

Within only two short texts, Isla determines the male is, perhaps, just as charming on a virtual wavelength as he was in person. A series of three dots surfaces quickly, an indication that he's typing.

Grocery endeavors aside, you've reached out to the right person. Do you have a particular area you'd like to look at and a specific price range you'd like to stay in?

That nosey worker didn't do her job and hold you up at the door for shoplifting, did she? Isla thumbs in, and then professionally curtails the conversation by clarifying her price range, tacking on, I'd like to stay closer to the outskirts of the city for work-travel purposes, if possible.

It was a whole thing, actually. Called the police on me as soon as you left. Now I have charges for grand theft produce. Apparently you're NOT supposed to eat grapes in the check-out line. The more you know, I suppose.

Her mouth quirks at grand theft produce. What an idiot, honestly. In an endearing way. In her peripherals, she catches sight of the wristlet glistening. Her gold bracelet that her mysterious Eros gave her — who would probably not be pleased that she was being endeared by a virtual conversation with a goofy real estate agent she'd met at the local Cal-Mart. Her mysterious Eros, who toyed with her body just the way she liked.

Suddenly, her perspective on the agent is far more professional and far less charmed.

And I can definitely look into that for you. I'll shoot you a text tomorrow with a few listings. You let me know if any of them catch your eye, and we'll go from there.

That sounds great. Thanks so much! Sorry again if this text came at a weird time for you.

Don't even worry about it. I've shown houses way past a sane hour. 7 PM is prime time.

Sure enough, Harry Styles sends her a handful of listings within her price range in a handful of pretty desired locations the following day, and she looks through a few over her lunch break. He hints that some of the listings aren't up on the consumer market, yet, which would explain why Isla had difficulty culling similar results on her own laptop. Sort of like an exclusive My Eyes Only for agents, he jokes in the chat. Isla swipes through the images in wonderment. Yes. Shooting a text to Harry Styles was certainly the right decision.

Friday afternoon plays out about as well as Isla's luck — spoiler, the pot seems to have run dry on account of her pleasant encounter with the real estate agent in shining armor.

And it's not that it's the worst day she's ever had, but it's a shitty day. The kickoff to her personal series of unfortunate events spawns in the form of her running late because her alarm doesn't go off. It happens, it's whatever. She doesn't have time to brew a coffee or shower or pack her lunch, but it's fine. She gets to the office with a hasty start to a heinous morning, and it's fine, because she moves on. She's drowsy on account of missing her morning shower, but she supposes the extra thirty minutes of sleep should make up for it, and she utilizes the coffee machine in the break room. At least the coffee is fresh. It's fine. Everything is fine.

Except, around eleven her computer opts to freeze up — which, easy enough nuisance to bear. And it would be just that — a nuisance. Only, she's in the process of editing a critical document she kind of, sort critically needs to get wrapped up within the next couple of days, and her platform doesn't default save, so she just sort of stares at the screen for a moment, smacks it, gives a helpless no, no, no, and has to count her losses with her hands buried in her stress-tousled hair. And that's shit, whatever. Technology is unreliable, especially when her office is still operating software from 2007 (which, why the fuck?), but she can let that go, because she can't do anything about it. It's annoying, but she lets it go.

At lunch, she's faced with the reminder that she's lacking one, so the young woman opts to head over to the cafe across the street. Except there's a torential downpour, and her umbrella opens fucking backwards, (how does that even happen?), and she just sort of stands under the awning ahead of the treacherous staircase and balks. Whatever. She'll Uber Eats her meal. So, she clambers back upstairs and pays her dues (ridiculously overpriced dues). Her lunch doesn't show up for another hour, despite the cafe being down the goddamn street, and she eats her tomato-mozz panini over her stupid, archaic block of a computer, brooding. The lousy pièce de résistance to staple a bow and wrap up the entirety of her lousy day is, perhaps, when her heel snaps as it catches in a grate on her helpless run through in the rain in the parking lot — why is it still fucking raining? So she nearly sprains her ankle, groaning mid hobble to her toyota — at least she'd taken it upon herself to fish her car keys out of her purse prior to running through the rain.

Isla goes home, she takes a hot shower, and for a second, she contemplates every option but spending her evening at the club. It'd been her light at the end of the tunnel for the entirety of the work week, but part of her feels the day can only get worse (despite the limited options for it to get worse). The only way she can really prevent anything more from going wrong is by, she supposes, doing nothing at all. There's a suspicion that claws within her, and it tells her that heading to Indulge tonight could, maybe, entail the Bad Thing to top it all off. But the thought of staying in is quickly dispelled by the notion that she needs to do something — she needs to lose herself for the night, she needs to lose everything that's gone wrong in the day, in the week, before she loses her mind. And Eros has a way of ...handling her mind when it becomes too rambunctious to bear. The entirety of his affections are based on the task of providing her with an outlet to shed her stress (and vice versa) — her nerve delicately handled in smooth, pleather-coated palms, and compressed to feel everything and nothing until she's forced to crumble in his grip.

She needs that.

And anyways, Isla thinks as she tucks herself into the driver's side of her vehicle and clicks in her seat belt, perhaps the worst thing she could do to herself that day is to leave Eros under the impression that she was standing him up. Perhaps that would be the Bad Thing.

Truly, the young woman is horrid at pasting a face of false, sugary sweetness and delight when her body is handling a strife of pressures and negative sentiments. It's the same reason she was a shit waitress and quit within a handful of weeks during a summer term in college, years ago, when she'd picked the gig up for pocket money. Her face showcased it all — and in more ways than one, Isla supposes the lace is a blessing. Because it doesn't let her just give it all away.

But Harry is past reading her face for emotional impressions.

When he steps into the Dungeon, closing the door softly behind him, he finds Peitho kneeling, as he always does. Her head is dipped towards the floor. At first, he doesn't even recognize the subtle signs that give it all away, despite the shrouding of her face. Inklings of body language, insights like the fact she's gnawing into her bottom lip, and her shoulders are squared like she's absolutely wound up and buzzing. At first, he just sort of ambles over to her with a soft smile cresting at his pillowy mouth.

"Hi, darling. Did we have a good day today?"

The phrase comes absentmindedly as he sets his duffel against the door. Peitho sighs. His lips quirk and he casts his gaze to her silhouette — he expects a sarcastic quip detailing the exact excellence of her day, but one doesn't come, and the dominant pauses before he stands to make his way over to her. Harry stops just short ahead of her, mere inches between his legs and her head. It's still ducked towards his shoes, obediently.

"No?" the male purses his strawberry mouth, tucking his fingers into her hair, but the teasing vim to his cadence falters as his submissive just ...plasters her forehead to his thigh. Slowly, she shakes her head side-to-side, a limited motion, an inclination that, no, her day wasn't good, and a crease works its way between his brows at her apparent state.

"Hey. Sweetheart, you alright?" his digits sift through her hair carefully, and Harry only peers down at her for a second before he moves his leg away — she makes a minute motion with her head like she's apt to follow it — and he squats to her level.

There's this thing that comes with a contract, between a dominant and a submissive.

It's unsaid — it's not in the fine print, even if you squint hard and attempt to decipher it from thin air to present itself in the grain. It exists in the outer frame, beyond the palpable papers, because it probably existed before the palpable papers. If it didn't, you're doing something really fucking wrong, and the papers shouldn't be palpable. There shouldn't be papers.

It's this little sentiment called care.

You care about the person you sign a contract with. And it doesn't have to be defined beyond its broad variations of textbook definitions — the provision of what is necessary for the health, welfare, maintenance, and protection of someone or something; to feel concern or interest; attach importance to something; to look after and provide for the needs of. It's not a sentiment that needs to be touched on and expanded upon verbally, but it's there. It has to be. The wholeness of the relationship relies on it. To not care is to not fulfill, and to not fulfill is to be a shoddy half of two signatures.

If you don't care about someone's well-being, however you'd like to define it, Harry definitely believes there shouldn't be a contract. And he cares.

She still won't look at him, is the thing, so he frowns and tells her, "Look at me."

She lifts her head. The corners of her mouth jolt, just barely, but he's disposed to believe that it's forced. For a moment, the man's gaze narrows, and then he takes on a soft tone as he draws a hand over her cheek, "There she is."

Peitho melts into his affections, and he prods, carefully, "What's this about? Let's talk."

The edges of her mouth cave and twitch, as if she's indisposed to take advantage of his sentiments, because Isla is. They play. They meet up, and they play, and he whips her and smacks her around and fucks her and makes her forget all but her own name and the word Sir. She doesn't want to sully their sanctity and talk about the drag of everyday humdrum, because that's not Peitho. That's Isla. Eros seems to pick up on pieces in the silence — perhaps not the puzzle, but enough, because he doesn't give her an out to decline. Instead, he coaxes her to her feet with a soft hand and leads her to that terrifying, sheetless mattress.

"Talk to me," he instructs once he's sat on the edge of the bed and has gotten her pasted in a perch over his thigh. There's a pregnant pause in which the young woman says nothing, just stiff over him, and he purses his mouth in contemplation and smooths his palm over her waist. He raises his eyebrows to tack on, half-jesting, "That is ...an order, in case you weren't aware."

His tone is gentle and lighthearted as he adds, "Plus, I dunno if you knew about this," the male sighs and his irises roll to the side, "but, normally, a conversation entails more than one person talking, and so far I've said all of the words."

His lips twitch as her own mouth quirks at the joke.

Finally, Isla speaks, clearing her throat, "There's nothing to say. I'm sorry, I'm being weird."

"Only a bit."

She punches out at his shoulder playfully with a weak fist.

"And, believe me, I like you weird. But not like this."

His teeth show as she snorts. Then, she takes her hand and rakes it through her hair, seemingly, finally brought out of her shell a smidge with his soft, playful temperament, "I just — you wouldn't believe how much could go wrong in one day."

Eros hums like he's expecting her to expand, and Isla lets the dam break with her flood of details, "Well, first my alarm doesn't go off for work — and that's, okay, that one's on me. I set it for PM instead of AM by accident, the night before."

"So I don't have time for my morning routine," she waves with her arms, "I'm rushed, I show up to the office in a bad mood. And then, my stupid computer freezes up because for some bizarre reason we're using fossil technology. Why the fuck are we still operating Windows Visa?"

His lips seem to twitch at her incredulous insert mid-rant, but he's quick to bridle the expression.

"And, mind you, I was working on something very important, so it got lost. And I didn't have to start from scratch, but I did lose about two good hours of progress."

The whole time she talks, the man listens with an absorbed gaze — one littered with traces of pity that are, for once, welcomed by Isla. Yes, she thinks, I had a horrible, no good, very bad day, and it's nice for someone to feel a bit bad for me.

"And then," she sighs and gestures with her hand as she pulls the curtain to a close on her tales of woe, "My umbrella opened backwards, so I had to Uber Eats my lunch from the cafe across the street just to avoid spending the rest of the day drenched like a wet dog at my desk."

The young woman tacks on, like an afterthought, "and then my heel broke. In a grate, in the parking lot. As I was running through the rain to get to my car, because my umbrella was broken."

Eros tuts and slinks a colossal palm to pet over her shin, focusing on the leg she's crossed up over the other, "That is ...a pretty shitty day."

"Yeah," she smiles a bit sadly, "I feel like it has to be karma, right?" Eros huffs in mirth as the young woman continues, a smile painting over her mouth, "because, listen, I don't know what the fuck I did, but I definitely paid for it today."

It feels good, Isla decides, to just talk about it. To pour out and discard the worries that'd swelled within her, and more than that, for some reason or another, it feels good that Eros is the one listening.

"Well," the dominant tells her, still petting sweetly at her leg, his mouth twitchy, "Your karmic misfortunes definitely don't involve anything with me, because I personally make sure you pay your dues."

Despite her priorly negative mood and the good-natured jesting in which the words are spoken, the implication of her many punishments send chills running down her arms. Because that's why she's here, that's what she wants, that's what she needs. And to be reminded that the male is more than willing to give her what she needs, more than willing to give her that bite of pain — well. She thinks the chills are a pretty proper reaction.

"Mm," Isla makes a soft sound of agreement and sets her arms over his shoulders, ducking her head to rest against her own bicep. The way his grip tightens over her abdomen in what's definitely a one-armed hug sends cozy, touchy feelings snaking through her, similar to the ones she has post a session when he's cradling her close.

His next words, though, have her head snapping up.

They're gentle and genuine, spoken with so much sincerity that it has her face softening, "We don't have to play tonight, if you're not up for it, pet."

"We can just," his tongue peeks out and glides over his lips, "Go sit at the bar, and you can eat your pile of processed sugar," her eyes roll as the edges of his mouth curl up on the light dig towards her penchants, "and it'll be a night."

"No," she tells him, instantly, but her brows pinch as she winds one arm around to finger at his collar in deliberation. He's offering to just hang out at the bar. And while the prospect of just eating cherries and jesting around with him sounds divine, she needs to play more. She needs the release.

"No? You're telling me no? To date night?" His tone is gentle and joke-y, and Isla shoots him a sheepish smile post her eye roll. Date night, honestly. He cocks his head in a way that's meant to be persuasive, "Promise I won't be upset if you wanna sit this one out."

"No — I mean, I want to play," she tells him with hints of resolve suffusing over the syllables, and Harry blinks at her determination, "I really want to play. I look forward to it, and I don't want to let a shitty day take that away from me. Plus," she lifts a shoulder, "it's my release," the young woman tips her chin up to face him, "and I need that."

Release. Harry knows she needs it, that it's catharsis in its rawest form, and he needs it, too. He clears his throat and just peers at her for a moment, "Alright. Sure. We'll play, but only if you're sure."

"I'm sure," she tells him, and gives him a short, award-winning beam that'd have him convinced if he wasn't otherwise, and then she hooks her chin over his shoulder as if to just bask in the embrace for a moment longer — which Harry thinks is silly, because he's in no haste to move. When she tacks on her next words, a little tentatively, it sends something that's hot and cold and sharp and lewd rolling down the knobs of his spine.

"Can you make it hurt?"

She's silly. Of course it'll hurt, in the best way, just the way she likes, the way they both need, but for her to ask him to make it hurt — that does something for him. Something like dipping his lower half into a cauldron of sex and desire and whips and chains.

He wants to tell her, of course it'll hurt, darling. Instead, his response comes in the form of soft touches on her back that contrast her desires, and haughtiness pulling at the corners of a cushiony, pink mouth, "You ask, and you shall receive."

His first course of action is to glue her over his knees — not sitting, as she had been, but splayed over on her stomach with her torso pressed to the mattress. Because spanking her, Harry decides, is a great way to kick off the scene. It ticks all of the boxes — it hurts, and she loves it, and it's a way to get her mind out of her head and floating about the walls, instead, like a DVD logo bouncing against the edges of the screen in sleep mode. And he wants her fairly subby for the rest of his agenda.

"These are pretty," he tells her, digging his thumb under the hem over one cheek of the black lace. He lets it snap back into place against her skin, and his submissive rocks forward as if he's smacked her.

Isla feels a furious blush swarm her face, warm cheek pressed to her cool arm. There's always a delicious component of humiliation that comes with laying over his lap, for a myriad of reasons. One being the view she's well aware he has. The thing with growing into Peitho was that it didn't mean she outgrew her tendencies and the natures of what ventured into humiliation for her, what made her embarrassed and blushy— she just learned how to utilize fake-it-till-you-make-it on a whole, other level. And it all works out, really, because she likes having her deep-seated sensations of shame toyed with.

She expects the blow, she expects the bloom of pain, she expects the initial inklings of fuck, this sucks, and the quiet bud of pleasure beneath it all, but she doesn't expect him to scold her like she's being spanked for doing something wrong two steps into a scene. When that happens, she feels the humiliation spark and ignite with something more.

"You probably think, this arsehole is spanking me just because he wants to spank me," Harry states, mouth curving up devilishly at the soft sound from her that a second smack incites, "and you're not wrong — what's not to like? But there's a bit more to it than that."

"Because I think—" unlike the first time when the sheets had been tucked far too tight, this time, Isla finds there's simply no sheets to grapple for, and she just sort of kicks her foot up weakly when he hits her again and teases, "—that fucking up your alarm for work's a bit irresponsible — keep your foot down. Don't you?"

The male manually manhandles the offensive leg and feigns exasperation as he sighs and tells her, "Am I gonna have to bind them? Really? You're gonna make me do that?"

"Woah — wait!" her hand flies back as she arches up, laughter suffusing her voice incredulously, "This is a punishment?"'

It's not, but Harry doesn't have it in him to give her a simple answer.

"Depends," a soft smirk plays over his lips, and he wrenches her hand over her back with a firm grip, "Didn't you say you wanted it to hurt?"

"Well, yes—"

"Then I suppose it's not much of a punishment, is it?" he purses his mouth in an effort to curb a wicked grin when he hits her again and she twists, "What are you complaining about? I'm giving you what you want."

There's a moment of lull that's just spent petting over her backside, and after a second, Peitho responds in a begrudged whine, "You always start so heavy."

"Heavy?" There's a note of incredulous surprise to his tone, "Okay — sorry," before he rolls his eyes and gives her backside a gentle lovetap in exaggeration, "Is this better?"

"Is this," he squeezes her curves and rewards her with another soft pat that siphons laughter from her, and his own lips crook, "doing it for you? Solid warm up?"

She's chortling until he surprises her with one that's considerably heavier, and her amusement splices into a gasp as she stiffens, rocking forward, and her reaction has his mouth crooking in a different way.

"Ooh—" she laughs through her grunt, her toes curling, "That one was heavy."

It's a playful, light start to the scene — something spurred by both the bridge from her priorly bad mood and his own adaptations to her tendencies, because he knows she needs to slip into the headspace. It's easy to come out of the gates with guns blazing, Harry thinks; cruel edges to words, mean glances, and rough touches. It'd catch her off guard and the scene would play out just the same. But it's more fun to just play. And it's all easy going.

Up until the point where he withdraws his grasp on her wrist and weaves his fingers into the hair on the back of her head. It's all fun and games, until he shoves her head into the mattress, digits tugging firmly at her roots in their clasp, and tells her, "You're awfully talkative tonight. Let's do something about that."

Peitho makes a soft sound of shock that's muffled by the bed. Harry only keeps her face smushed down for a moment before he cranes her neck back roughly and rewards her with another blow, and the sound she makes in response to it has arousal snaking through his stomach and sinking, sinking, sinking.

"Maybe," Isla picks up the smooth baritone of his cadence carrying traces of contemplation, and she bites into her bottom lip and shifts, "it should be a punishment — you're awfully talkative, but you haven't used the word Sir once."

A pause.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Eros—" her giggly statement cuts off into a grunt as the fingers in her hair tighten a smidge and another smack falls.

"Again with the Mr. Eros shit. Bloody hell," Harry blows out a breath, fighting mirth at her vigorous drive to be a little pest. 

But it's not her fault! Really, Isla thinks, his buttons are just too easy to push. He makes it too easy. And being with Eros made it too easy for her worries to become disposed and to slip into playfulness.

"Why are you so against it? It's got a ring to it!" Isla protests, stretching her neck when he lets loose of the grasp over her hair and sighs.

"Because it's improper."

The way he just gently fondles her backside for a moment leaves her doused in anticipation, but Isla pushes another dangerous red button blithely, mimicking his dialect when she shakes her head and gibes, "Well, bloody hell!"

His hand pauses. Beyond amused disbelief, the man can't hamper the sputter-y huff that falls from his mouth. He physically twists to face the back of her head, and the submissive just erupts in laughter because she senses the motion. "Are you mocking me?"

Peitho takes a deep breath, as if to contain her laughter, and then, in all seriousness, declines, "Of course not." But Harry can see that she's picking at her nails in an obvious attempt to restrain her mirth. She tacks on, blasé, like the accusation is entirely far-fetched, "I would never. I was just ...doing an impression, in a positive light, to bring emphasis to..."

"To?" Harry raises his eyebrows.

"Well, I actually don't really know where I was going with that," she melts into giggles and the corners of his mouth buckle, "but I definitely wasn't mocking you."

When he hits her again, she rocks forward on her toes, and grunts, "I wasn't!" another smack culls the statement, "I changed my mind — I want a massage, I want to be loved on, and I'd like to take you up on that offer to go sit at the bar and eat — fuck — processed sugar!"

Though, there's no true traces to imply that she's actually changed her mind, and the pity coating his words is feigned, "Too little, too late. You've mocked me, bruised my ego, and now it's only fair that I bruise you. Would you like to safe out?"

He does pause for a moment, giving her that out if she genuinely wants it, and he skims his tongue over the inside of his cheek in the quiet, "Any takers? Any objections? Speak now, or forever hold your peace..."

Or speak later. Obviously. As always. But he doesn't tack that on, because he doesn't want to ruin the ceremonious speech of his joke. When she just wiggles over him, biting her tongue, he raises his eyebrows and smooths a hand over her backside.

"No? No objections?" as a precaution, he lifts his leg and sets it over the backs of her own.

There's no objections. Harry proceeds. Peitho whines and gripes the entire time, until she doesn't, until he hits that point where she starts to meld into mushy territory, the sweet spot. Which doesn't take too long, at all. And then he stops and pets over her warm flesh like the sight of it is his own, personal form of crack.

And it is.

He loves the marks — the way her skin morphs from its natural hue and turns a pretty, ruddy color. He's half-sure he must look like a proper junkie, pupils blown and all. As he traces over the rouge and watches the milky white rise in the wake of his trailing finger, his attention is entirely engrossed. Eventually, he reworks his attention onto the rest of her and shifts his focus from simple workings of blood pushing out of capillaries — it shouldn't make him so fucking horny. She's not crying, which he decides is good. He wouldn't have minded if she did, but he thinks it's a little early for it. Harry pets a palm onto the small of her back and draws aimless, soothing motions. He moves his leg, and she shifts her legs in return — still in orbit at a reasonable proximity. Another good sign.

"Flip over," he beckons, giving her thigh a light pat, and she shuffles off of him with little grace and little inclination that she's physically prepared to follow his instructions. It's a pleasant surprise when she exhales and obliges with little hesitancy, though, and once she's flopped onto her back he catches sight of her mouth, swollen and puffy from the assault of her own teeth.

The dominant stuffs the tips of his digits past the edges of her underwear, on either side, and tugs them off with no resistance on her part, because that part is easy. And then he ducks and slips to his knees ahead of her legs, a perfect 90-degree angle in the bend of her knees over the edge of the mattress.

A chill runs over her skin as his gloved fingers draw up her thighs, and they splay a smidge on their own accord. Isla's chest rolls with shuddery breaths as she attempts to decipher the dominant's next move. She's proud of herself for muzzling the gasp that nearly breaks free when he slides his hands behind her knees, settling them in the bend, and tugs her closer to him in a swift, rough motion.

His course of action, Isla discovers, is a move she couldn't have fathomed even if she'd seen bold hints through binoculars. Because when he dips forward and starts pressing soft kisses to her inner thighs, that should be hint enough, right? The previously steady pace of her breathing stutters, and she just watches intently through the lace as he holds brazen eye contact. The kisses venture, venture, closer, closer, and then he pulls back and sticks his tongue out and glides it in a languid, straight line up her inner thigh. The sensual eye contact, of all things, Isla decides, is nearly too much to bear. But she finds that she's unable to look away. Partly because it feels like a sin to miss the sight of Eros and his tongue painting shapes between her legs, and partly, because, well—

"Keep your eyes on me," he tells her, voice soft but not quite void of that dominant quality. He pastes another kiss onto her slightly trembling thighs, and promises, before pressing on another, "You put your head back, I stop."

GOD. He is a sex God. Which isn't a detail that'd surpassed her judgment, but the reminder has her doing helpless fucking kegels. And then he wraps his pillowy, strawberry lips over the skin of her inner thigh, and sucks, teeth skimming over flesh. Isla nearly folds and throws her head back, then and there. Her jaw unhinges a bit, and she just helplessly watches the borderline pornographic sight of him leaving a love bite on her inner thigh. It's not that he hasn't left marks before — it's that he hasn't left marks with his mouth.

When he pulls back and ogles the bruised area, he's seemingly satisfied by whatever he's left behind. The male slides his palm over her pelvis, right above where she throbs, just peering up at her for a moment, mouth fighting to twitch into a smirk. And then he ducks forward, presses a few chaste kisses to the opposite thigh, and casually swipes his tongue, wet and flat, from her entrance to the hood of her clit.

That's when Isla really almost folds. She doesn't — a pathetic sound escapes her, and her hips shift and cant on their own accord, and her teeth grit behind her lips, but she keeps her head up obediently.

In twenty-seven years, it's safe to say that Harry's had his fill of sexual encounters. His charm and allure, in combination with his membership and reputation at Indulge, has certainly allowed for the list to grow — but it's not like he was keeping track. In the bigger picture, it all meant that oral sex was his friend. There's a thing or two to know about the complex circuit of the feminine anatomy, and in vulgar (but candid) terms: his experience in eating pussy was plentiful, to say the least. If he's being honest, and he were to crunch the numbers, perhaps the numbers are a bit much to count on his hands (and feet), but it doesn't matter.

Women were like flowers, right? Beautiful, fantastic beings sculpted by nature, and not one was really like the other. Harry's no botanical connoisseur, but it's easy to make the connection between delicate plants and a woman's sexual journey to climax; handle with care. Unless your partner explicitly states that they want to take a flogger to the cunt, or something — in which case, handle with intent, very researched care.

Fuck. The long swipe of his tongue from her entrance to her clit leaves sweet notes on his palate, and Harry realizes he's never wanted more to go in for seconds and thirds. It's a fucking flower, truly, and her arousal is like nectar in his mouth.

He spreads her open like a peach he's dug his thumbs into, parting her lips with a soft, glove-clad touch on either side before he draws a long lap with his tongue. It goes around, from just below her entry where she leaks, to the hood of her clit, and back around. He lingers where the sweetness flows and avoids where he knows she wants him most, because that's the beauty of eating pussy, isn't it? He can take his time and tease, drawing shapes with his tongue around and around, press biting kisses to her inner thighs, avoid her clit during the build up, and then finally offer a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive bud once she's pliable and wanting, one that has her instantly squirming.

Any man could go straight for the clit (if he could find it). Any schmuck could sit there, draw the alphabet off the bat, and reenact whatever other overplayed bullshit he'd skimmed on wiki-how: how to eat pussy for dummies. But that wasn't how it worked. And it wasn't the motto Harry abided by, anyhow. Because he was a dick, and the mantra of tease, tease, tease worked out much too well in this scenario. Unfortunately, due to Joe Shmoe, his horrible cosmopolitan sex advice, and his swollen-headed ideas of what a woman needed, many women didn't even know it could get better. But it could.

Eating pussy was artistry, and Harry was an artist.

When it gets about time for that open-mouthed kiss, he presses the kisses all the way up and sucks her clit into his mouth gently, humming.

All the submissive can manage, in response, is a pathetic little hngh, eyebrows pinched andjaw slack just to release shallow exhales. Her chest trembles when the male winds his tongue in a slow circle around her clit, keeping the bundle of nerves trapped in the warmth of his mouth.

Isla supposes he wouldn't really know if her pupils were to escape the spectacle, right? It feels a bit like cheating, but for a second, she lets her eyes slip shut and just revels in the sensation, in the suction over her core. A pang of desirous humiliation coils in her chest at the realization that she's probably dripping. The shut-eye is short-lived, however, and her lashes flutter upon the recognition that this isn't a show she's keen to miss. But the view of his own lashes fluttering over the latex against his cheekbones, of the way he's so hungry between her legs, like he's proper enjoying himself, has her irises rolling back into her head.

Isla moans. She moans, and her hands form into fists. She's simply a slave to his ministrations, and she doesn't mind it one bit. The young woman feels herself pulsing in his mouth, yearning for more as he draws tight circles with the tip of his tongue, and her stomach tenses as he presses down with his palm to restrain the purposeful grind of her hips just as it starts.

Eros pulls off, then, and she huffs, whining, until she catches sight of the string of arousal that connects his pink lips to her cunt. He thumbs at it, maintaining eye contact, and then sucks his thumb into his mouth. All hope is lost from there. The male fixes jade irises on her as he tells her, like she can just comply, "Be a good girl, and stay still for me."

Her arousal is glinting over the latex against his chin under the lighting, is the thing. Like it's mocking her — a tangible reminder of her desperate state, and she's just watched him nonchalantly suck the same arousal off his thumb. This is ludicrous. Isla thinks, he's going to kill her. She'll simply combust into a flurry of flames, ash left in the wake of her self-induced bonfire from sparks of want. The young woman gnaws into her cheek to curb a little whine at the sight.

And when the pad of his forefinger swipes at her entrance to gather wetness and then draws a circle around her clit, his gaze honed on his actions, she can't contain herself any longer. At the soft sounds, he casts his gaze up. He watches her poor attempts to constrain squirming, mirth dancing in his eyes.

"Excuse me. I'm trying to do something here."

She doesn't even have it in her to pretend to be amused by his joke. Isla groans as the index switches to a thumb, and Eros just grazes with it, side to side. His mouth quirks.

"Poor baby," he tuts, the syrapy baritone of his smooth, condescending inflection sending another wave of hungry craving surging through her, "So needy, aren't you? Be quiet."

Be a good girl, stay still. Be quiet. These are all, Isla thinks, unreasonable requests. There's no empathy or consideration to them. She just can't. There's too much to focus on, and all she can fixate on is the scalding warmth of desire between her thighs and the sensations that his actions coax. There's the beginnings of a horrible cramp that throbs in her neck, but she keeps her head up, still, because she never wants him to stop, never wants this to end. Ever.

As he reconnects his mouth with her core, the determination behind keeping her head up certainly falters a bit. It swings, for sure, but miraculously, it stays on its feet. He works over her bundle of nerves with purpose, and then he slides his finger into her, and her toes curl. She feels herself spiraling, pleasure slinking through her system and building familiarly, and as his tongue works and his finger fucks into her in tandem, Isla can't help but feel her semblance splintering and sharding. And then he slips the finger out, coated in her wetness, and prods lower, just skimming over her other hole, and resilience is gone.

"Please," she presses out quickly, surprised by the croakiness of her own voice, "Sir, please, can I cum?"

He's the devil. How's that song go? You, you terrible thing? Isla doesn't remember, she can't remember, there's just not enough gears to grind in her brain, at the moment. The headline is that he's wicked, he's cruel. He pulls off and smacks her just where he'd been sucking prior, siphoning a sharp cry. It's not nearly hard enough to actually hurt, but it's enough to shock her nervous system and recalibrate her into factory mode. And the thing is, the cruel ministration nearly does it for her. Nearly. She nearly free falls off the precipice, just off the way he hits her. But she doesn't.

Instead, she keens as he waits a millisecond before thumbing at her clit for a split second, and the contrasting sensation of a soft touch following the rough slap has a newfound wave of pleasure rolling through her. "No, you may not."

Harry half-expects her to whine and ask, in a small voice, why not? but she seems to be past the ability to fathom backchat. It's a bit of a shame, really. He does love her backchat. It's amusing. She does look a little crestfallen by his denial, so he'll have to settle on the amusement he gets from that. To be fair, he'd never implied that playing with him would be easy.

When Eros takes his thumb away and presses his palms against the edge of the mattress, on either side of her thighs, and uses the contact to propel himself into a stance, the springs creak and the young woman watches him with her thought processing mechanism processing on overdrive. Slowly, she clasps her thighs together, squeezing, because the impending crest of her orgasm is gone, but the desire looms, blistering. She casts her gaze to his figure as he walks across the room and kneels ahead of the duffel he's set against the wall. The dominant unzips it, rummages, and culls a thin, dark rope from his bag. He looks ...deliberative, and then he stretches it and seemingly deems the choice satisfactory. The selection throws her off — typically, he opts for thicker rope to bind her, and he's never used a rope on her from his duffel.

And then he walks over, slowly, and stops with just a handful of feet between himself and the bed — where Isla is still gathering whatever she can of her composure. He tells her, cadence borderline distracted, "Come suck on my cock while I work on this."

Good God. She doesn't want to move at all, which is justified because he's mean, the young woman thinks. But curiosity prevails as he pulls the rope taut in his hands to find an end and weaves a loop through.

"You're gonna... How can I suck your dick while you're tying me up?"

With her head tilted, she sees him cast his gaze onto her as the motion of his hands stifles, "I believe I told you to suck my cock, not to ask me questions." He tacks on, as his attention shifts back to the rope, "M'not going to tell you again."

Bemused, Isla pushes herself up to sit and then clambers off the bed, but she's stopped short just before taking a step by his statement.

"Crawl."

When, in his peripherals, Harry doesn't see her immediately fall to all fours upon his command, the corners of his mouth jolt and his irises flit up to her figure, "Crawl to me. On all fours. You can manage that, darling, can't you?"

Despite the fury that'd teem her being in any other circumstances, his patronizing tone sends a wave of lust coursing through her veins. Slowly, Isla slips to all fours, and crawls for Eros. Like a dog.

And Eros seems to have the same metaphor in mind. Once she's in front of his dress shoes and cocks her head up at him, he pauses the ropework and draws his digits through her hair, just on the side of her head, and praises, "Good girl."

And then his hand withdraws, his mouth crooks, and he makes a motion with the same palm like a physical command given to a dog performing tricks. Harry teases, "Speak."

He watches the muscles move in Peitho's jaw as she clenches them at the degrading joke. "How about bite?"

"How about," he grasps the same jaw with the same hand he'd jested with, soft at first, and then he digs the pads of his fingers into her skin and smushes her cheeks, bending towards her face, "I use a paddle on you until my arm gets tired? How's that sound?"

She's quiet.

"No?" his eyebrows raise, "That doesn't sound good?"

His grip retracts and he practically shoves her head back roughly in the process. And then he unclips his belt buckle, the clink of metal on metal sending a zap of electric something through her. The man fingers at the button on his trousers, tugs down the zipper, and, (unlike Isla had assumed he would), he doesn't just tug his cock out through the opening.

"Hands behind your back."

Instead, he slips his slacks down a few inches. Isla catches sight of a lot. His Calvin Klein waistband, for one, and as he tugs that down, she sees that his pubic hair is neatly trimmed. But perhaps the detail that captures her attention most prominently is glimpses of stems, of leaves — of laurels, darkly etched into his skin. They're details she hasn't seen before. Her eyes drink in the view of the inky artwork hungrily. She doesn't have long to take in the contoured lines, though, because her pupils flit to his cock on their own accord. He draws a gloved fist over the tip teasingly — teasing her.

"Show me what else that mouth is good for, then."

And when his hand moves away, Peitho leans forward and takes his tip into her muted berry mouth, her hands locked behind her back obediently. Tying knots into a rope as her tongue works over him isn't impossible, but the latter makes the former considerably more difficult, Harry decides. It doesn't show, though. He knows she's ogling him, through the lace, his fingertips working over the cord, confused, and he wishes for nothing more than to stare down and see those pretty eyes that hide behind her disguise. In lieu of staring down at the obscene sight of her head working over his cock, Harry hones his concentration on the rope, fingers weaving at a nonchalant pace.

There's no splinter to his composure, Isla realizes, not when she drags her tongue over the underside of his shaft, not when she hollows her cheeks and steers forward to take more of him into the warmth of her mouth. There's not even traces of a tremble to his hands. His task is his obvious priority, and his irises focus on the knots drawn by his fingers. The young woman's still unsure of what he's even doing, is the thing — as soon as one knot loops through, he tightens it by pulling the rope taut with a firm grip on either side, and then slides it through to focus knotting a differing fragment. It makes her wet — wetter, warmer, the way he doesn't even seem to bat an eye at her efforts to please him. The pleasure of his degradation enmeshes with the humiliation of liking it, and it sinks, floaty, through her to crest between her legs. Eventually, though, her bemusement gets the best of her, and she pulls off with a pop, sitting back on her haunches. At least then she sees inklings of give in his body language, because for a millisecond, his hips make a minute motion as if to chase her mouth. The dominant pauses mid-handiwork, and fixes her with an unimpressed stare.

"Did I tell you to stop?" his voice is hard and cold on the inquiry.

"Sir," she protests, despite his cadence, "What are you doing? You're not even paying attention to me."

"No?" his tongue peeks out from between his lips to glide, and his cock pulses, and he takes a palm off the cord to weave into the hair at the back of her head. All she can manage is a choked-off garble of apalment as he steers her toward his cock and drives her down on his shaft roughly.

"Is this enough—" her hands fly forward on their own accord, twitching helplessly but not quite scrambling to grip onto his thighs, and her throat flexes instinctively over his tip upon the sudden intrusion, "—attention for you?"

The tip of her nose pastes to his pubic hair and her eyes screw shut. When he tears her back a second later, his cock sloppy and coated wetly in her saliva, Isla sputters into coughs. The dominant's hand falls away with nothing gentle to the motion.

"Don't do that again," there's no explicit threat to his statement, no words painting a warning, but there doesn't have to be, because his tone speaks volumes.

When he casually reaffixes his attention onto tying those odd knots back onto the rope, she takes it as an indication that he'd like her to go back to what she'd been doing, as well. Apparently he won't be giving her any clues. So, slowly, Isla leans forward and takes him back into her mouth, the motion of her head as languid as his keenness to appreciate her efforts. As she slides, lower and lower, deeper and deeper, and reaches the hilt, her eyes squeezed shut and her throat compressing over him, Eros huffs out an appreciative hiss and takes another pause on his task. He takes one hand away and guides it back to her head, and as his glove-clad digits interweave with her strands, they're gentler. He tugs her off, and nudges her head lower and—

FUCK.

Her lips plaster to his balls as he presses her face in, and his cock, wet from her mouth, pastes to her cheek, to the lace, and Isla gets it now — why he'd opted to draw his pants off rather than to just stick his dick through the zipper, as he always had. Because he'd intended for her to suck his balls.

The young woman's mouth slips open and she slides her tongue over the underside of his sac. Eros groans in turn, his fingers twitchy on the back of her head. So she wraps her mouth over one side and suctions, rolling her tongue, and she feels the muscles in his thighs strain and shake at her ministrations.

"Fuck, baby. Shit — Christ," the male praises, and his string of curse words implies that Isla is doing something right.

Harry can do knots when she's mouthing over his cock — that part is easy. He can't, however, do his work quite as effortlessly when she's got her tongue laving over his balls, and he discovers this unfortunate fact when her performance practically paralyzes him. For a bit, he just basks in the sensations, the pleasure pulsing through him, because it's just too good to put a stop to. The rope gets cradled in his fist, off to the side, and he doesn't do anything with it for a while. His quads tremble, and his knees feel weak, and his bottom lip becomes locked onto by his teeth, and—

"Stop," above her, Eros demands breathily, but it doesn't sound much like a demand, at all. There's nothing like the typical, commandeering notes to his tone — he sounds like her tongue has worked him into a weak frenzy.

With this realization, there's satisfaction brimming in her as Isla withdraws. The dominant blows out a breath and tells her through an open-mouthed grin, gesturing with the rope, "Fuck. M'not gonna get done with this at all with you doing that."

Her mouth twitches. She goes back to his dick, stamping kisses over the length as the man goes back to the rope, slower in his handiwork than he'd been prior — an blatant consequence of attempting to gather his composure. He slips into a rhythm soon enough, though, and so does Isla. Just as she starts getting comfortable and zoning out to bathe in nothing but the need coursing through her at his lack of attention, he pats at her cheek. Bemused, she pulls off and watches him tuck himself back into his trunks, tug up his slacks, and do up the works to re-secure himself. He does leave his belt freed, and the open buckle tantalizes her. A pout forms over her mouth, but it's cut short as he makes a beeline to the wall across the room. She watches him, with the dark, thin cord wound in one hand, glean a thicker, beige variation of the rope off a hook holstered to the wall. He sets that over his shoulder, and then he takes a set of moves onto the trunk beside it. Curiously, she ogles his back as he sifts through the clinking supplies, and she swallows as she sees him pull a cordless wand out and a set of nipple clamps, connected by a chain. Similar to the ones he'd used on her in their first scene so many weeks ago. The clamps, he clips onto a belt loop, and they hang off by one end. For the wand, he picks a condom and tears it open, pulling it apart with his gloves to wrap it over the head of the toy, as he always does. It's set into his back pocket, stem first, so just the head hangs out, and. Well, it all looks a bit ridiculous, but she doesn't have it in her to laugh because what the fuck is he doing with the rope? Eros ambles to a post on the opposite side of the room, and he casts his gaze to her and motions with his chin.

"Come here."

So she does. Isla stands, her knees ache-y, and she makes her way over to his side slowly, where he takes hold of her upper arm and physically moves her to stand beside the wooden column. There's a line of hooks ranging in heights over the post, and his sight seems to flicker from them to level with her hips.

"Stand on your toes," Eros tells her, and she rises onto them. He pauses, then takes a step back, releasing her arm, evidently satisfied. Isla rocks back onto the balls of her feet as she watches him wind one end of the rope through one of the hooks.

"Are you going to tie me to that?" she inquires, and Harry doesn't miss the eager note to her cadence.

He blinks over to her, his mouth curving softly and his gaze half-lidded lewdly as she pulls the knot over the hook tight, "Would you like me to tie you to this?"

In response, Isla just shrugs, feigning indifference, but she buzzes within because she still has no idea what his agenda is comprised of.

He keeps his smile on as he wraps a palm over her arm and guides her, backwards, to stand a few feet away, where her back nearly knocks into another paralleled post, dragging the length of the rope alongside him in the slow steps. Then, he takes the hand that'd been on her arm and slinks it between her legs, fingertips prodding. Isla's breath catches in the back of her throat, and her shoulders freeze up when he drags her wetness up over her clit.

For a second, Harry just draws circles with the pads of a digit, and if the sound wasn't enough of an indication, when he pulls his hand back and sees her arousal glimmering over the onyx of his gloves, that would be. The corners of his mouth jolt. And then he slips to a kneel and draws the rope between her ankles.

The thing about a crotch rope walk was that its role was ...complex. If done right, it was fun — fun to endure for the submissive; the humiliation, the strain, the stimulation and the little bite of pain that intermingled with the pleasure of the knots. For the dominant, fun to watch — the struggle, the helpless sounds, the list goes on. But there was a lot that went into it to make it fun. Because you had to be sure the person was into it, right? If having a piece of rope wedged between someone's legs as they were forced to tiptoe over it, nearly stumbling, wasn't enticing, if getting off on being defiled and edged by knots wasn't a turn on, it probably, definitely wouldn't be fun. If someone wasn't a bit of a masochist — not fun. If you used an abrasive rope rather than a smooth one — not fun. If you went into it dry, with a lack of foreplay — again, not fun. The consequence of all of the un-fun alternatives, in combination, was just a shitty rope-burn that wasn't much fun to be an onlooker for, either.

But if you did it just right — if your partner wanted that bite of pain there, if you used the right rope, if you made sure that your partner was toyed with enough, and if you used a vibrator, too, or toyed with the rope as it pulled taut between their legs? Well that's just a dream — a wet one.

As he guides the rope up, bends over to level with her cunt and situates the cord up between her lips, a shudder rolls down the knobs of Isla's spine, while the rest of her sears beneath the heat of... his gaze, his touch, all of it. The rope presses up against her and her hands twitch. A devious smirk works over the man's pillowy mouth when he tells her, "Toes."

She rises onto them, and trails around her, keeping a hand behind her to pull the rope onto the opposite hook. She stares at the knots ahead. Oh God. He's going to make her walk that.

The beige rope, the young woman learns, is for her arms. He has her stick her arm out to undo her bracelet first, and he pockets it. Then, the man has her fold her arms behind her back, winding with the cord, and ties a harness that presses around her tits and secures her limbs, rendering them useless. Her arms flex in the restraints hopelessly as her eyes slip shut, but they fly open as deft fingertips pluck at her nipples. Isla watches him unclip the set of clamps off his belt loop, and her heart hammers behind her ribcage. She doesn't even have it in her to shy away, the desire coursing through her like a flood through a river in a storm.

"Y'know how this goes. Breathe," he instructs, opening the clamp and securing it in a way that has her gasping, "Good. One more, for me."

When he clips on the second one, her eyes screw shut and her jaw clenches.

The sight of her, like this, all helpless for him, sends desirous warmth throbbing through him, and as Harry sends the rope vibrating with a pluck of a finger over the taut cord, the moan the action incites has him absolutely buzzing. When he takes the wand out of his pocket, handling it by the head at first and swapping to the handle, flicks it on, and presses it to her cunt, where the rope presses in, Peitho wobbles, forced to shift her feet and take a step back with one of her feet.

His mouth crooks, and he speaks softly against her ear, "Are you going to be a good girl?"

The young woman's response comes in the form of a whine, and a breathy agreement, "Yes. Yes, yes, Sir."

"Good."

He lets the vibrator do its magic over her nerve endings for a few more moments before he pulls it away from her core and, instead, presses the bulbous head onto the rope. Her chest rolls as the cord vibrates. Carefully, he hooks the fingertips on his opposite hand onto the chain between the nipple clamps, pulls on it, and tells her, "Walk."

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

#dom harry styles #harry styles #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles edit #harry styles edits #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles wattpad #harry styles x oc #harry styles writing #domharry #dom!harry #TDIAG #1800titz #1-800-tits #harry styles angst

[kscosplaycatalog]

No. 3 - 2008

Character: Yazoo Series: Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children by Square Enix

Cosplayer Credits: - Kadaj : Kat - Reno : Jaiden

Photo Credits: - ChibiPa's nope - FSC's TigerFist - Morataya Photography - Our friend, Chris - Our friend, Kirky

==========

I definitely can't wear this costume anymore. We actually made them in such a way that we didn't need to bind or anything for them because they sort of acted like a corset/binder all on their own. They were also so form-fitting up top that I couldn't lift my arms up beyond a certain point; I could barely touch my own face. And living in FL, we did almost die of heat stroke a few times taking pics outside... so yeah, don't do that! 😂

==========

We finished everything in time for MetroCon '08 except for the weapons which we completed at the end of October.

All of the leather material aspects are made of car leather which is a lot thicker than most other fabrics because it had, not only a leather top, but a cloth underside. We made the coat first, but used the wrong needles and broke about 4-6 of them. We made our own pattern from a form-fitting jacket we had and extended it to the appropriate length. Each piece of the side design was separately sewn into place on a piece of organza. Once it was a whole piece, we sewed the whole thing on the coat. We purchased the custom zippers from ZipperSource.com. The wrists were crafted with wooden bangles purchased at Michael's and hot glued into place. The boots were made from on-sale Keds and a cover. We made a pattern to get the leather to be form-fitting and hot glued the covers in place. We already had costume gloves and the pants were merely tights. We made the big shoulder armor pieces out of cardboard, polyfil and a bit of furniture foam. The little ones were just stuffed. We hand sewed the little ones to the big ones. The straps were also hand sewed to the armor and the snaps were stomped in place (literally). The wigs were purchased from eBay seller CosplayWig.

Kadaj's weapon was made out of Balsa wood and my father, a carpenter, crafted it. Kat finished it off by wrapping the hilt and adding the black and white ribbons. Yazoo's weapon was made out of spruce wood and bits of metal for the trigger, trigger guard, hammer, and site. I used a hot glue gun to make the designs.

==========

Cost: $185 Time: ~900 hrs

#yazoo cosplay #final fantasy 7 cosplay #ff7 cosplay #advent children cosplay #final fantasy 7: advent children cosplay #final fantasy vii: advent children cosplay #anime cosplay #square enix cosplay #handmade cosplay #cosplay with a prop

[ramayantika]

~ The one deceived

»»————> ◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐<————««

O lovers, enchanters of your sweet maidens, must you keep in mind to never displease the queen of your hearts.

'She who adorns herself in fine silks and jewels, awaits you at night hiding from the entire town in the heart of the forest where fierce beasts lay, she must never be kept await for long and certainly must not be left alone if ever your eyes droop for a night. Who knows someone else might snatch the beauty away?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫

With dark eyes not blue lotus

she fashions a welcome garland.

Petals she strews—

not various species of jasmine

but smiles.

Water she offers from ripe

moistened breasts

rather than ceremonial jars.

With only her own body

she makes for her

lover an

auspicious welcome.

~ Erotic Love Poems from India

A tightly knotted braid pinned by jewelled pins moves like a serpent by her waist. She carefully arranges flowers in her hair, just the way he likes. She spent months apart from him, and now is the time to bring long lost romance back into their lives -- of sweet nothings, stolen kisses, teasing words and the bliss of just being around your lover.

The morning was spent in perfuming the hair and the body. His favourite scent: the rain perfused soil. It always enchanted him when she passed by the busy market place in front of him. She usually preferred a light scent of roses, but today she has to make him heady as soon as he catches a whiff of air around him.

A necklace decked with moonstones sits on her making her look dazzling. Her wrists are adorned with glass bangles, and a shy smile teases her lips when her friends tease her on the various ways glass bangles can be broken tonight.

"Quiet. You must not speak like this. He's a gentle lover," she admonishes them with a stern look that soon melts into a beautiful blush and her friends once again start teasing her.

"You look perfect now. If you decorate yourself anymore, your dazzling form shall blind him as soon as he enters the house," says a friend, dabbing a kohl dot behind the jewelled maiden's ear to ward off the evil eye.

»»——⍟——«« ♧♧ »»——⍟——««

The letter in betel leaves 🥀

Handmaiden bears a large plate on her tender hands.

Soft silks from lands far and wide,

jewels crafted in nothing but perfection,

perfume extracted from only exotic flowers and oils,

But what pleases the bejewelled beauty?

A silver box revealing a richly stuffed Kaushal paan.

'In separation I have burned for several moons, and my heart wailed in agony. Where do I carry this ocean of love when you are the shore that binds me to you? Oh, my dearest, my lovely moon, it is you I desire. Come meet my by the riverside near the sweet-smelling jasmine bower.'

.・。.・゜✭・»��——⍟——««.・✫・゜・。.

झांझर झमके सुन झमके आधी रात को

उसको तोको न रोको तोको न रोको

आधी रात को।

𝐎𝐡, 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭,

𝐌𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐡𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬,

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈 𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭.

𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞,

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬...

'We sipped on moon-gleam at midnight.

And the moon rose in our eyes, at midnight.'

-- Delicate as the moonstone, bangle laden wrists

alert the love god who stands ever ready with love arrows.

She traverses down the narrow forest path,

Her feet leave behind fresh red footprints on earth,

And jingling anklets make the serpents steer off her way.

-- The jasmine bower fresh and fragrant as ever,

Fireflies adorn the bushes like earthen lamps in a house's courtyard.

The moon unveiled shines on the resplendent maiden

And like the chakora, she fills her eyes with the moonbeams,

In each, a vision of the man prisoned in heart.

-- The forest grows still.

Doe eyes search for him in every corner of the forest.

Is he playing games today? Must I walk and search for him now?

The love god too has dozed off, his bow and arrows discarded beside.

The garland around her neck now frail,

Tiny buds fall down and mingle with the earth...

»»————>○○○○○○○○○○○○<————««

And, rasikas, here we behold a man who did not keep his promise. Sends the extravagant betel leaf and promises of giving a beautiful night, but gives in to the sweet embrace of slumber while the beauty awaits in the forest, her once radiant face now pale in fear and annoyance.

Oh, the pain of shattered dreams filled of love, sweet words, passionate touches and long nights. How can one scorn a woman this way after long nights of loneliness?

Chuckle in mirth my friends, for the man dreams of kissing her lips in his sleep. Who shall tell him about his lover's wrath at dawn break tomorrow?

*******

Breathing hard into the lotus calyx

Annoyed at his care less actions,

She wipes an angry tear from her soft cheek.

Tosses away the wretched droopy garland,

Flings the silver anklet far across the room.

Red lips that should have been kissed curse the sun.

Arms that should have been curled around his neck

Lay bare bereft of bangles on the silken sheets.

Her bosom that should have carried drops of perspiration from a sweet night of love

That should have been kissed tenderly, Adorned with a chain of bites

Now heave in anger, wanting a respite.

The love god scoffs at the man yet deep in sleep

Who makes love the scorned woman in waking.

The love goddess pitifully caresses the heart broken girl,

And winces when the moon-like beauty sends

A silver box encasing an empty betel leaf and a lone anklet

»»——⍟——««

Tags: @ratna-the-furball @swayamev @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @pulihora @arachneofthoughts @krishna-priyatama @yehsahihai @reallythoughtfulwizard @ketchup-jar-ka @manujanolavu @morally-gayy @celestesinsight @desi-cleopatra

I used a lot of references from kamasutra for this and probably this is one of my in a way most explicit lol

#samridhi writes #love poems #ancient Indian aesthetic #nayikas #indian academia

[whimsigothwitch]

hiii!!! i always love when you post your personal outfits, they're so slay!! what usually inspires the way you dress? colours, people, moods, etc?? your blog is a great source of inspiration btw!!

Hi! and thank you so so much! 💝

I get inspired by nature, the seasons and music, I have a lot of clothing with floral patterns and colors that remind me of nature. In the summer I wear much lighter colors than in the winter, together with floaty fabrics, ruffles, crocheted clothing, mesh, midi skirts, bell sleeves etc. In the fall I wear warmer colors such as burgundy, dark green, beige and brown tones, as soon as it gets colder the velvet and corduroy clothing pieces come out of my closet! I own one pair of sneakers that are honestly dusting away because I always wear platform boots/loafers/ballerina's/heels! I love thrifting and vintage clothing, so I always try to find unique pieces that spice up an outfit (turtlenecks and pantalons with vintage baroque prints, tapestry prints). Also some art I get inspired by is from William Morris, the prints that many people have as wallpaper in their homes! H&M had a line called "Morris & Co" a while ago where his prints came back in clothing pieces, I bought a second-hand pair of pantalons from this line and I am absolutely in love! (I'll be sharing some outfits soon!)

The same goes for accessories, many vintage and statement pieces; crystal necklaces, vintage jewelry and embroidered belts, jewelry from my mom and grandma, statement rings, moon and sun symbols (moon goddess), stacked bangle bracelets (they make a lovely sound, which is really calming), vintage scarves and hats, and don’t get me started on bags!

Music also has a big influence on how I dress, I'm a big fan of 60s and 70s music, Stevie Nicks, Kate Bush, glam rock.. a mix of all of these together! I also get inspired by shows such as The Craft, Practical magic, Sabrina the teenage witch & Chilling adventures of Sabrina (If I was a place, I would be Sabrina's living room tbh) and Charmed!

#whimsigoth #whimsigothic #whimsical #witch #witchyvibes #witchcraft #witchy #accessories #clothes #clothing #pagan #pagan witch #paganism #70s #60s #stevie nicks #fleetwood mac #kate bush #vintage #thrift #thrifting #second hand

[harinishivaa]

Colours of Vaani

The sound of gentle anklets tinkled joyously in the ears of Brahma, who was in deep thought. The very feel of the sound gave Him a deeper clarity, the anklets belonging to His Eternal Ardhaangini Sarasvati, whose Lotus feet touched the open leaves of the Lotus flowers, they spreading wide just for Her, giving Her feet space, freely offering their reverential devotion. He knew Her feet would be stained red, deeper than the usual red, owing to the fact that She had just come from Vaikunta, where it was customary to send Medha back only with new kumkum applied.

He could envision the mischievous argument which would have broken out then, in the form of banter.

"Medha, can I please colour your feet red?" Lakshmi asked, eyes twinkling innocently, yet filled with mischief.

"Lakshmi, has Bhrata Narayana finally taught you mischief?" Uma teased, giggling when Lakshmi pouted at Her, though the mischief in Her Lotus eyes did not even falter for a second.

"Can I colour yours, Sri?" questioned Medha, Her own eyes, so very much like Shiva's, arresting and beautiful, shone in deep amusement.

"We all will colour each other's," said Sri instead, laughing when Uma gave Her a mock exasperated look.

"Yes, we will!"

"And we did, Swami!"

Her voice was like the pleasant waterfalls that soothed an injured heart and Soul, a gentle balm lovingly caressing and healing. Brahma opened His eyes to see His wife standing in front of Him, one foot pointed, the other flat, the curves of Her soles splendid in their beauty. Her standard half white clothing held the tinge of Vaikunta's Bliss. Her bangles had changed into a different set than the pearl ones She had worn that morning, now decked with rubies studded in gold bangles, a gift Sri had hand crafted Herself, no doubt. The necklace She wore was the same one she always wore, pearl in gold, a gift He had given Her right after their marriage, a symbol of Her purity alone being the reason for the shine of His golden nature that created the Universe with Her help.

He took in Her calm Lotus face, eyes lined with kohl and Her sindoor filled with the red kumkum He always placed on Her forehead, Her pottu beautiful and round. Her hair was plaited and decorated with jasmine, no doubt the handiwork of Uma.

"Swami!"

Medha's face had taken on a deep red hue, making Brahma adore Her even more. Jnanamayi Vidya was blushing just due to His adoration?

"Swami, stop pretending to be some normal human," pouted Sarasvati, touching His feet before sitting down on the Lotus to His left, ever Her position, the Lotus white, much like Her very purity.

"Priye, you make me know the value and meaning of Love. Then how can I not be human with you?"

Brahma's words made Medha smile, tender, loving, deep and shy; She was ever the newly wed bride with Him.

"Words true of you are true of me too, Praneshvara. If you are human with me, I too am only a woman with you. Not MahaDevi, as I am to most," said She, Her voice the compliment of His baritone, both soothing, gently loving the Universe like only the Creators could.

"Vaani, I have not the words to describe you," said Brahma softly. "All I can say is that anything I say is because of you, anything I act upon is because of you. If I am passive, you are the active part of me, ever watchful and present. It is your energy that aids this Creation that is part of my duties."

"Swami, an Ardhaangini is She who is forever a partner to Her husband in every single way possible. She has a share in every creation, every responsibility, in every happiness, and most definitely, in every sadness of His. She is His other half, like He Hers. How can we be different? What you wish is what I do. What I prompt is what you say. We are Complete together."

Brahma just listened to Her adoringly, His eyes conveying the depth of Love He felt for Her. She could see the reflection of His love in His wide eyes, touching Her face and causing a gentle caress on it. A smile on Her lips, She leaned forward to place Her head on His shoulder, the two seated on Brahma Deva's pink Lotus, lost in Their own Bliss, even as the sounds of Sarasvati's Veena sang through the Universe, awakening Joy, Happiness, Prosperity and Righteousness across the endless Brahmanda.

********

@vibishalakshman @thelekhikawrites @celestesinsight @krishna-sahacharini @kaal-naagin @krishnapriyakiduniya @nirmohi-premika @chemicalmindedlotus @whippersnappersbookworm @sakhiiii @ambidextrousarcher @willkatfanfromasia @nspwriteups @dr-scribbler @rupkatha-banerjee @theramblergirl @hinsaa-paramo-dharma @moon-880 @thegleamingmoon Please let me know you thoughts, and do let me know if the rest of you want to be added to the list. 

#sanatana dharma #sanatana #sarasvati #brahma #desi academia #desi #desiblr #trideva #tridevi #krishna #shiva #rama #mahabharata #ramayana

[edgelordfinalboss]

🌊OF SHARP STONES🌊

SECTION ONE: OCEAN

Chapter: Introduction//Prologue

Fandom: The Lost Boys (1987)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Blood, Violence, Witch hunting, Witch burning, Witchcraft, Trauma and Character death.

Summary: A coven of witches living on the beach of Santa Carla have to deal with the death of their leader after a lethal witch burning that leads to the bounty hunting of both them and their romantic partners, the notorious lost boys of Santa Carla. Yet, something more terrifying lives in Santa Carla and it's the spirits of those killed by the hunting, begging for revenge.

Note: Please Like and Repost! It would be much appreciated. Thank you so much!!!

Fanfiction playlist:

🎠Kimora🎠

Night has long fallen.

Upon the pier sits a gathering of birds, crying out my summons within their own strange language. The beat of their wings, silvery and onyx along with the song of their caws once had filled me with awe. Now it's only a nuisance and a reflection of my shortcomings.

A witch without her familiar is as dangerous as holding a wild viper, no protection in her craft or against those who seek to harm her. The birds call out to a familiar seeking a witch but it seems that all of them are too far from earshot.

"Maybe they're dead, Kimora." The blonde lays across my lap, his blue eyes tinted with flecks of gold. "Or deaf."

"Don't speak of misfortune." I'm quick to hush him. "Paul, you know what happens when a witch loses her familiar or worse, never finds them."

"Maybe you have found them." Paul reaches for my hand, his bracelets shimmering and clinking against mine.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Star has David. She lost her familiar but with him, she seems quite fine." Our hands intertwine, the cold of his fingers becoming less bothersome with the passing of months. They cling on to the warmth of a recent feeding, but it's quickly passing, leaving the warm tone of his skin to pale to his unique silvery gleam.

"But she's not. You can't be my familiar, Paul. That doesn't even sound right." I lean back and listen to the magic below, the blue and turquoise waves crashing on the shore of the beach. It sounds much like electric currents, shifting through the waves, up and under the crash in the way that fish do.

"Oh, am I far too lame, not magical enough?" The dramatic part of him itches to push at my core but I can barely hinder my laugh, the true me that all the harsh training and shadow work could never bury away for good.

"No way."

"Then what is it?" Lifting himself, he throws his head back to slap me in the face with his golden hair. His beads and bangles chime softly, even the hook of sapphire stone and vibrant sea glass I hooked in his hair creates their own song.

"You don't understand witches. Our familiars can't be humans."

"You talk about witches like you're some kinda secret club, much like us vampires but witches always have to be superior, you can't sit with us types." Paul jokes around. "Well, I'm not human."

"Familiars have to be ancient spirits in the form of animals," I say, pretending to be tired of going back and forth with him. "Not human, not vampire, not werewolf, not witch."

"I know." His breaths slow. "But what about us? When that animal comes, cat, dog, or whatever you'll have less time for me. Less time for our jukebox dinners, less time to play records or shred a guitar with me. I'm scared that I'm gonna lose you."

Paul has always been the small feeling of warmth that lasts in my heart through the lonely nights, the reason I would sneak away from the coven's beach house at twilight. When I had first met him I was far different, plump with pecan tan skin and a hunger for familiarity, a hunger for the snow-capped mountains and the endless wildness of home.

Now my muscles have formed from straining the magic within my blood, dancing with it, and burning my skin under the scorching Santa Carla sun. My body, one I was unhappy in had grown consistent in muscle mass, yet, still, I've found no peace in my self-perception. Paul was a force to be reckoned with on his own but still, somehow he'd remained playful and carefree.

It was what drew me to him amongst other listable things, of course.

He was the cool water on the scorching sand.

"Do you really think a familiar will change things?" I lift my hand to his face, cupping his cheek.

"You'll be doing much more magic." He whispers. "You and the coven might disband."

"Never."

"Star left the coven and joined us." He looks off in the distance as a ship rings its bell across the waves. The chime echoes in my head, ringing as I try not to get lost in my thoughts.

"She lost her familiar. It was no way that we could convince her that she was still one of us. She was also terrified of her family's judgment." I hold his hand tight.

We both sit in silence as the ship passes below us, heading towards the boardwalk. Leaning against his shoulder, I wonder if he truly believes it. Lines of bright gold lights up a clear path through the ocean as the blue and white hunk of metal slices through the waves.

"And you know how much Darla loves Marko and Dwayne has the hots for Angel."

"Yeah."

"Your uncontrollable powers and my hunger for blood." He chuckles. "We make one deadly duo."

"And none of us will age." I say. "We'll always be young."

I stand up, called to the trees by something that rings through my blood like the bells of the ships docked. I know it isn't that though because this sound is far too strong. It isn't tangible or has a source I can pinpoint. Though, it's personal.

Paul stands with me, the metal decor of his jacket jingling softly as we leave the wooden pier and head toward the beach. He silently follows close, not questioning my reasoning as he used to. It's our ever-growing trust combined with the little things that my magic has found that keep him from stopping me. Antiques and small trinkets, sometimes trespassers on witchland that made him a nice blood snack, and another picture on the missing board.

The lights of the ferris wheel and the millions of attractions splayed out across the boardwalk catch my eye but the feelings running strong through my veins keep me on my path, strengthening it so that if I wanted to break away from it, my attempts would be in vain.

The wood of the pier disappears into metal gates, chain link fences, and sand as we cross the threshold, the waters fading into golden sand stretches and shrubs. The salty smell of the water fills my nostrils, a smell that took nearly six months to get used to.

My eyes stay on the trees swaying in the wind, the shadows that dance on the forest floor through the space where light pierces through the veil of darkness. The birds on the pier, the servants of the witches lift and fade into the night as flashes of black.

Maybe it's my familiar. I doubt it though.

My feet don't stop as Paul steps to my side, his eyes filled with worry and a silent plea to turn around. It's unclear if he can sense that something is wrong. If even the vampire feels the stillness in the air, I know I should note.

The tree branches poke into my sides as I slap them away, moving farther and farther through the forest. They leave scars on my face, drawing blood as the pines reach out. The ground thins but my feet are dragged along by a sensation burning through my body, seeping into every part of my being. The sweet smell of pine hangs on the leaves, getting stronger with each step.

"No!" I fall to my knees as the earth slants downward, leaving me without a foothold as Paul does the same. Shocked, even he's not fast enough to hold us both up as we plummet down into the earth's pore.

Through the crashing and thrashing, nothing holds me. With every rock that my feet touch, they simply fall with me and the awkwardly twisting branches snap.

I dislodge pieces of the earth as I grapple at stones, slippery with what feels like ocean mist. My feet kick up stones and gravel as I fall. Paul calls me as he half floats, half falls through the space.

"Blood!"

Halfway through calling me, he stops.

With one last slam into the earth, it all gives away and I hit the ground with no warning. Pines cones and needles lay under my back with the occasional stone ripping into my skin.

The sky hangs above dotted with thousands of blinking stars, twisting and twirling in the night sky. They fall around the moon as if in mourning, a sign that had only happened during the final witch trials, the symbol that marked the last burning, never happening before or again in history.

Crunching on the leaves breaks my eyes away from the sky, the panic of Paul reminding me that this isn't some weird dream. That this is real and my blood, the life of me led me here.

"Kimmy." His hands find my face.

I look up and see his fangs and the tremble of his body, the attempt to keep himself from vamping out.

"What?" I lift my eyes to the circle of sticks that surround me against the trees, each stick only a few feet away from the other in the clearing with charred lumps attached to them with the smell of magic and blood in the air. I can barely make out what they are, but like some ancient connection that ignites the primal fear of all witches, I scream loud and guttural.

I gasp, dragging myself up despite the pain in my back and arms. My feet threaten to drag me back down as Paul fights against his hunger and true nature.

"No. No. No!" I scream to the poles, to the bones that remain, and the blood that seeps from the pine wood to the earth. Small crosses litter the earth, poking up from the litter of dried-out pine needles.

My magic threatens to burst from my veins and set the entirety of Santa Carla's forest ablaze but Paul's grip on me keeps me restrained. Not that could but I would do anything to calm my anger and fear.

The memories of this place go straight to my head with a hazy fog as I touch a torn piece of fabric from a frilly young witch's blouse that hangs on the splinters of the partially burnt pole.

The scene comes to me. It smells of sage and warm cinnamon pies, the dinners of the witches of the bluff, a coven far from the boardwalk but within walking distance of the beach. They had always been rather kind but different from my coven.

The witches of the bluff were far more open with magic as the sight of tarot cards, wands, crystal balls, and herbs come to mind, attractions to bring in humans, to make money.

The scene shifts to darkness, of the blue-tinted sky of the evening shifting into the night, of the first stars blinking around the moon. They're alive.

Screams come next and magic, oh, glorious magic. Gold and pink, cobalt and deep green as men dressed in black march with each witch carried and dragged with rope, their powers subdued with flames upon wooden sticks wrapped with cloth.

A young hippie witch, much younger than me, dressed in pink falls to the ground as a man pulls on her ropes with a cruel laugh that boils my blood. Pieces of sleeves rip as she fights against a pole, her magic, a flash of bright yellow flares from her palm so bright that the man who holds her rope shrieks.

She's so ferocious and strong but in the face of hatred, in the face of terrified men, she's nothing but a weak attempt.

I gasp, my lungs burning as life returns to me and the past fades away. The witches are no longer fighting for the last bits of life. They're long gone, burnt corpses above us like angels of death.

Paul holds me tight, suppressing his hunger. His claws dig into my skin as I linger at the foot of a pole.

My head twirls again and I hear her voice. The voice of our High Priestess calling in my head, her cries strained by sobs and gasps for air. Between her screams for help is the sound of leaves crunching as something heavy drags across the earth.

Her life flashes away like smoke, the scene of ropes binding her hands as magic the color of fire spills from her fingers as she tried to do what was right fades.

I know her intentions as if they're my own. She gave her life as the ropes of death snatched her noble existence away in little more than a few seconds. Now our coven is without a leader. Without a teacher, without a figure to keep us strong.

She's dead, snatched away from my coven when I should have been right at her side, even if that meant death.

And I'm without a glimpse of the faces and the bloody hands that took her away from me.

#Tlb #lost boys paul #the lost boys #the lost boys david #the lost boys dwayne #the lost boys marko #dwayne lost boys #the lost boys paul #dwayne the lost boys #thelostboys #paul the lost boys #laddie tlb #star tlb #tlb 1987 #tlb fanfic #david tlb #paul tlb #marko tlb #michael tlb #Spotify

[whippersnappersbookworm]

Kaadhal avargaludaiyadhu

Kundavai fidgeted with her bangles as she sat down in the boat. It has been almost an hour since Vandiyathevan was captured by her guards and has been held captive on an abandoned island under her strict orders. Is he alright? Did the guards treat him with care like I asked them to or did they …? Various thoughts were running through Kundavai's head as the boat moved forward. Kundavai was known across Chola Nadu for her incredible presence of mind and her way with words, but right now that very princess seems to be struggling with composing a sentence in her mind. How am I gonna do it? Kundavai thought. How does one express one's feelings to someone? Why has no one ever taught her this? She is well versed in everything starting from state craft , to poetry, but she doesn't know how to confess her feelings to a man? How can this happen?- Kundavai sighed as she covered her face in frustration.

Since she was a child, Kundavai was never the one to get blown away by feelings. She was always the picture of perfection, logical and practical . Love or any other kind of absurd feeling didn't have any place in her small world. But this certain Vanar warrior changed everything for her. He arrived out of nowhere like a gust of wind in her life and transformed the practical Illavarasi into a simpering girl. How did he do this ?- Kundavai wondered aloud. From where did he learn this art of winning the hearts of young maidens with nothing but a few words? He is the only man who had the power to render Kundavai speechless.

It had been three months since Kundavai had met the Vanar Kulam veer , three months since she had struggled with all these unknown emotions. All these months , Kundavai had tried her best to ignore those unruly thoughts , she had tried her best to drive Vanthiyer away from her dreams . But the news of him drowning in the sea together with his brother ,changed everything. Being brought up with two warriors made Kundavai hard-hearted; crying was always a sign of weakness to her . But the news of her beloved and her brother drowning in the sea broke her stone-cold facade, and revealed a side of her which was unknown to everyone. It has forced her to finally acknowledge her feelings for Vallavaryan, to accept the fact that love is not a myth , it is a very real thing. Three months of separation had proven to her that she couldn't live without this warrior. She needs him like a fish needs water to survive, or like a Chakor needs the moon. She is incomplete without him and his love.

" Leave me ! I am not a spy ! I have brought good news for your Illavarasi!"- Vallavaryan's screaming brought Kundavai back to reality. She looked up to find him on the abandoned island , blindfolded and handcuffed just like she ordered. Kundavai took a final breath to compose herself as she got down from the boat. This is it , this is the moment she has been waiting for , for three months.

****************************************

Ropes dug into Vandiyathevan's hands as he tried to break free. He has been struggling to get out from his handcuffs for an hour now , his whole body is tired by the journey; it doesn't have enough strength to work its way out of those tight ropes. Vandiyathevan entered the city of Pazhayarai with many dreams in his eyes. He spent his whole journey daydreaming about the beautiful princess, the queen of his heart. Oh how beautiful she will look when I tell her about my brave deeds , how happy she will be when she gets to know that her dear thambi is alive. Will she compliment me on my bravery? What if she smiled at me and asked me what I wanted as my reward for such an honorable deed? What will I say ? Can I ask her to give me a small piece of her jewelry as a keepsake to remember our rendezvous? Will she remember me? Of course she will! How can she ever forget the man she sent to bring back her brother? She promised that she would wait for me. Does that count as something?

But all this wonderful bubble of imagination he built in his head was burst as soon as he reached the palace. The princess didn't even bother to glance at him! She completely ignored his presence and, on top of that, all these stupid soldiers decided to capture him and put him in this godforsaken place!

" Ahhhh!"- He screamed in frustration and prayed to every god he knew

" Please Shiva Perumal, kanan , or whatever god is out there! Please help me get out of this situation! I promise I will never lie or trick someone again! I will also stop flirting with women, but please let me get out of here ! I am still so young, I don't want to die without having the chance to gaze at Ilavarasi's beautiful smile for one last time. "

Suddenly, a sound of someone advancing, stopped his chain of thoughts. He could hear someone coming! Someone is here. The gods have heard his prayer

" Who are you!"- Vallavaryan tried his best to make his voice sound menacing.

" Let me go or otherwise, I am perfectly capable of killing you , even if I am blindfolded."

Suddenly, there was a sound of whoosh as his captor took out his beloved sword from his belt.

Vallavaryan panicked internally, his only source of bravery now gone . What is he going to do now?

" Where is Arulmolzhi Varman "- his captor asked as they circled around him.

" Oh they have sent a woman then"- Vallavaryan smirked , ah there is a chance then . A woman can't do anything to him , he can easily charm his way out of here.

" Why should I tell you ?"

The sword swiftly landed on his neck.

" Don't you value your head?"

Vallavaryan smiled at the woman's words

" You are not going to behead me."

" Why?"- she asked as she pushed the sword down his neck , making him wince in pain.

" Because I have good news for your princess."

His captor took a moment to consider his words, then, with a swift blow, uncuffed his hands .

Vandiyathevan sighed in relief ,

" Ah she trusts me , maybe now she will take me to the princess."

" What good news?"

" Why should I tell you ?"- asked Vandiyathevan as she stopped him from taking off his blindfold. " Because the princess sent me "- the word stopped Vandiyatheva

" The ilavarasi sent you?"- he could finally see some light at the end of this dark tunnel.

Was she the one who captured him? That means she remembers him! There is still hope.

" What did she say?"

The sword was once again back in his throat, dangerously close to his pulse,

" Slay the spy!"- The mystery woman replied

Suddenly, a familiar scent of Jasmine and sandalwood hit Vandiyathevan's nostrils as his captor moved forward. There is something very familiar about this smell. Who is she? Vandiyathevan wondered , do I know her? Is she by any chance? Vallavaryan stopped in his tracks . Yes it is her! Who else can it be? This particular smell had been in his mind since the day he met her in the boat. It has haunted his dreams back in Eezham, accompanying him throughout his journey. Vandiyathevan decided to try his luck , as he put his hand on the tip of the sword.His captor allowed it.

" She doesn't remember me? "- Vandiyathevan said as he slowly approached her.

" No, she must have forgotten you."

"Probably, I am, after all, a landless warrior and she is the daughter of Chakravarthy, besides..."

" Besides?"

" I heard she is going to marry Parthibendan soon."

"So ? What is that to you?"- her voice quivered, making him smile.

" Nothing really. Who am I After all? I don't own a patch of land. What can I desire?"

He slowly touched her hands , and fire ignited in his body as he felt her soft hands in his rough ones.

" What do you desire?"- Vandiyathevan could feel the princess coming closer to him, the smell of Jasmine and sandalwood now driving him mad, making him burn with desire and passion. As if challenging him to take off his blindfold and pull her into his arms.

" Many things"- he replied, trying to control himself from doing something rash.

" Who told you that the princess is going to marry Parthibendan?"

" She isn't? Really?"- now it was her turn to surprise him.

" No. "

" Why?"

He slowly brings her closer, hope now filling his mind.

What if the princess feels something for him? What if? A man can certainly dream.

" Because thoughts of someone else fill her mind."

Vandiyathevan could feel his world stop for a moment, several thoughts running in his head as he heard the sword drop behind him and the princess gasp at his touch.

" He promised her something but has now forgotten about it."

" What promise? I kept my promise, Arulmolzhi Varman is safe!"- Vandiyathevan almost screamed in frustration, his hands itching to take off his blindfold and sweep the princess from her feet, to take her in his arms and run away to the lands of fairy tales where there would be no politics, no Nandhini, no impending war to distract them.

" That was an order not a promise"-She replied, her voice now reduced to a whisper.

Vandiyathevan could feel her breath in his face , caressing his ears as if teasing him to capture her lips with his

" He promised that his heart is not his anymore, it now belongs to me"

A smile appeared on Vandiyathevan's face as he remembered a certain vow he made in his first meeting with the princess. She remembered everything,she felt the same for me, it was never a one-sided admiration but something more than that.

****************************************

Kundavai looked at his beloved's face as the realization dawned upon him. A beautiful smile broke into his face, making her heart skip a beat.

That damned smile , the smile that started everything

He tried to take off his blindfold but she stopped him .She needed a minute before she gazed into his twinkling eyes , a minute before he looked at her , all decked up to meet him . She needed a minute to do something she always wanted from the very first moment she gazed upon him.

Kundavai took a deep breath as she moved forward. She could practically smell him now. His smell makes her feel comfortable and safe, it reminds her of the childhood she had left behind. She looked down at his lips , parted and gasping for breath as if eagerly waiting for her . She closed her eyes and slowly leaned forward to touch his lips with hers. A strange sensation passed through her body as soon as she felt his lips on her , making her move back gasping for breath. She could feel fire burning in her heart and a strange sensation in her stomach.

What was she doing? Did she lose her mind? What if someone saw them?

Kundavai tried running away but she was too late. A strong hand captured her and brought her back to her previous position.

****************************************

The kiss was unexpected. Vandiyathevan expected her to hold his hands or maybe an innocent peek on his cheeks, but the kiss came out of nowhere. But he should not be amazed ,everything was unusual with his princess. He ripped off the blindfold as he brought her near. She was dressed in white from head to toe , a red blush creeping into her face making her look as beautiful as ever. In Vallavaryan's eyes, Kundavai's beauty was incomparable and could rival the heavenly Apsaras or the greatest of beauties. She can rage storms and wildfires with one look of her eyes ,her smile can stop the world from burning. It could even rival the beautiful flowers, she was more than perfect in his eyes.

" I didn't know the princess could blush?"- he asked as he touched her cheeks

"Of course she can , she is a woman after all"-Kundavai replied as she looked up to gaze at his twinkling eyes. The same eyes that had stolen her heart like a thief

" Ilavarasi, I "

" Kundavai" - princess rendered the spy speechless as she puts a finger on his lips

" Call me by my name, Vallavaryan. I may be the princess to others, but to you I am just Kundavai. A mere woman who is standing in front of you, asking you to love her"

"Kundavai…"- Vandiyathevan whispered in her ears as he tucked away a stray hair

" My Kundavai, do you know how much I missed you, Ennavale? Do you know how much I yearned to hold you close like this?"

Kundavai giggled at his love-struck words.

" I knew that Vallavaryan is a great warrior from my brother's letter, but he never mentioned that he has such a way with words. Tell me Vanthiyer , how many women have you entrapped by all these honeyed words of yours?"

" Not a single one since I have met you, Kundavai, I swear on Shiva Perumal. You are the only one in my thoughts for those three agony-filled months. You were my only ray of light in those dark times, I only survived so I could come back and confess my love for you!"

" Really?"- Kundavai asked.

" Yes yes! "- He replied as he kissed her finger, making her gasp in surprise.

" Do you remember our previous births, Kanmani? Where you were, the goddess of the forest, and was I your humble servant? I spent my whole life waiting for you to glance at me but you never did! Then, do you remember when you were an apsara in Indra's court and I was a Gandarva ? I dedicate my life to your feet, but you just laugh at my folly? Do you remember when I was a poet and you were my muse? Do you remember when I dedicated all my poetry to you, and you didn't care to take a look? Do you remember all those lives, Kanmani? I have spent all my seven previous births yearning for you , and now finally my prayers are answered. The Gods have finally taken pity on this mere mortal and granted him a boon in the form of your love devi. You have made me the luckiest man on earth today Azhagiye.And I , the Vanar kulam Veer Vandiyathevan, promise with the sun and the ponni river as my witness that I will keep on loving you, the Illiya Piratti Kundavai till my very last breath. Even if you leave me or break my heart , I will keep loving you since the day I die."

" Oh Vandiyathevan!"- tears were now flowing down Kundavai's cheeks. She had imagined many things about her future since she was a little girl. She imagined being her father's pride, her brother's support. But never ever in any of her wildest dreams had she imagined a certain veer like him falling madly in love with her and promising her the world.

" And I , the Illayi Priratti Kundavai, also promise to you, Vanthiyer, as the sun and ponni river as my witness that the hand which held yours will never know the touch of another man"

Her last words were drowned by Vandiyathevan as he leaned upon her, stopping her midway by capturing her lips with his. The twin flames that were burning within them for all these days , were finally extinguished by the long-waited kiss. Finally, two souls whose story started on the banks of the Ponni find its course once again with Ponni as their witness .Their story will live on forever frozen in time , as long as Ponni blows through the heart of the great Chola Nadu. Dynasties will change, people will change, but their story will remain forever preserved in the water of Ponni.

Many people had already done their version of the proposal, so here is mine. Please tell me your honest thoughts about this. Also I am writing more fics on them , so you can give me prompts if you want ! I will try my best to write them down.

@gemsmusings Thanks for this prompt!

@vijayasena @vibishalakshman @thelekhikawrites @ambidextrousarcher @celestesinsight @yehsahihai @jukti-torko-golpo @kovaipaavai @rang-lo @dr-scribbler @ragkee @hollogramhallucination @thegleamingmoon @chiyaanvikram @arachneofthoughts @sakhiiii @harinishivaa @freeunknownwasteland @nspwriteups

#ponniyin selvan #kundavai #vandiyadevan

[artemisbarnowl]

I went to some markets this morning and they were REAL they had actual artists and crafts people selling things they legit made with their own hands!!! Wool and wild silk dyed with leaves, hand carved wood tableware and ornaments (we love trees here sir), possum pelts and possum/merino knit clothes and accessories, ceramics (inc these LOVELY bangles), enamel jewellery, UGGs made here from sheep up the road, apples and berries from farms in the hills. Also artists selling oil paintings, photos, prints and my favourite- a lino artist with this absolutely gorgeous fairy wren print that I WILL be buying when I've saved up money.

Also, hot food and honey and stuff but I feel like most markets where I live are for food so I'm not as impressed

[arofili]

Fingon could not take his eyes off his betrothed. Maedhros was dressed in white and gold, practically glowing with happiness. The train of his white robes trailed behind him on the grass, and with each step he took Fingon could see the glint of golden rings on his bare toes. The front of his shirt was cut in a low vee, showing a scandalous amount of skin that Fingon could not wait to trace with his tongue later that evening. His hair was elegantly curled, pinned in such a way that it mimicked the waterfalls of Hithlum in its tumbling rolls, and his fingers and ears dripped with gold jewelry. Upon his breast was a pendant bearing the Star of Fëanor, little red jewels embedded in each of the eight points, and his lips were painted rouge-red, contrasting the glitter of gold dust around his eyes. Fingon wanted to kiss him until he could taste nothing else but the taste of his mouth—but most beautiful of all was his radiant smile, and the light of love in his eyes that was for Fingon alone.

Even in his own beautiful wedding attire, Fingon felt almost naked in comparison to Maedhros’ elegance. He wore a midnight-blue gown studded with little silver stars, and a sheer periwinkle cape draped over his bare brown arms. He had been honored by Queen Míriel’s request to craft his outfit, the surest sign of her approval he could have hoped for, more than making up for Fëanor’s silence, in his mind. On his wrists were several silver bangles, on his hands several rings of Maedhros’ own making, and in his ears delicately spun silver threads intertwined in an intricate, infinite dance. Aredhel had braided his hair with its usual golden ribbons, but she had also woven in sparkling silver wires to accent his other jewelry. Around his neck was a necklace much like the one Maedhros wore, its pendant wrought in shimmering blue metal and bearing the emblem of the blazing sun of Ñolofinwë’s House.

What a pair they made: white and gold, silver and blue, gleaming in the setting Sun. Fingon was sure his own smile was as bright as his beloved’s, and he was so caught up in the glow of Maedhros’ silver eyes that he almost missed the beginning of Finrod’s speech.

—“The Light of Love” by starlightwalking

Thank you so much to the lovely @astral-aromance for this amazing commission of (another!) Russingon wedding scene <3 This was inspired by their outfits in my fic “The Light of Love,” which was itself inspired by fanart, and so this feels like we’re coming full circle :) I just adore the details in their outfits, especially Fingon’s hair—!!! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!

#maedhros #fingon #russingon #maedhros x fingon #astral aromance #commission #silm #silmarillion #silm art #silm fanart #the light of love #for me